


PIZZAGRAMS

by BeneficialAddiction



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Phil Coulson, Bossman Fury, Clint Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, M/M, Minor Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Misunderstandings, pizzamaster Bruce, stripper pizza, stripper!Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 01:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6136294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Just a super cheesy story about a pizza place that fronts a stripper service.</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. # 5 Special

**Author's Note:**

> Minor dubcon due to a misunderstanding, but it doesn't go anywhere.

Phil’s only just moved back to New York. It’s after eleven, his new apartment is a mess of misplaced furniture and half-open boxes, he’s sweaty, exhausted, and starving. Stark had offered to send him a bunch of professional movers to do the heavy lifting, an interior designer to get everything squared away, but he’d been too stubborn to take the man up on it and now he was regretting his decision. 

A poor decision he now realizes, as he trudges to the shower in misguided hope of having the knots in his shoulders loosened by the hot water. The throbbing in his knees confirmed that flash of insight, and was enough of a chastisement to force him to set aside his pride, at least enough to take the man’s advice on a good pizza joint and call PizzaGrams. 

It was a horrible name - a horrible premise really - and where it certainly offended Phil’s sense of taste, he had to admit that Tony Stark knew good pizza. The eccentric engineering genius had assured him that the pie would be well worth the show, though his snickering suggested he was getting one over at Phil’s expense. Unfortunately at that point, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Fed up with the world, the entire, messy process of moving, he couldn’t be bothered to scroll through Yelp and anyway, Stark’s jokes had never been malicious in nature. 

Tapping on the link to the pizzeria’s website, he’d keyed in the coupon code Stark had texted him and picked the #5 Special at random, tossing his phone away into the clutter, intent on nothing more than his shower and a change of clothes. 

Of course, now that he was thinking a little more clearly under the spray, he suspected that he should’ve taken the time to actually look through the specials before he ordered. He didn’t really care what came on the pizza - he was hungry enough even for _pineapple_ tonight - but he was dreading the actual singing. 

Or dancing. 

Or… whatever it was that came along with a pizza-gram. 

Climbing out and toweling off, he began to contemplate all the different ways he might get out of receiving anything more than the actual pizza, up to and including faking the chicken pox with baby powder and a washable red marker. He actually liked that one quite a lot, but in the moment it seemed like far too much effort when he could just snatch the pizza and close the door on whoever delivered it. Let them sing from the hallway if they had to. 

Besides, he didn’t have the energy for much more than tugging on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt at the moment, slipping on his glasses to give his eyes a rest. 

Wandering back into the living room, he surveyed the mess disinterestedly while patting himself on the back for having thought to pack an overnight bad. A hold-over from his days in the Army, Phil knew how to pack; the little black duffle bag had been the first thing through the door. Pajamas, toothbrush, DVDs and a six-pack - it had been a godsend to shower and brush his teeth, and given that he’d judiciously kept the couch clear and located his wayward laptop, he would be able to relax with a drink and movie for a few minutes while he prepared himself to suffer through the horrors of singing pizza delivery that awaited him. 

Weaving carefully across the mini disaster zone, he crossed behind the kitchen island and opened the fridge, gleaming and empty save for his beer. Grabbing three, he popped a top with a quick twist and sent the cap skittering over the granite countertop. 

Granite, lord. 

He was really coming up in the world wasn’t he? 

Run-down studios, Army barracks, shitty walk-ups in bad neighborhoods, and now here he was, in a fancy apartment in Stark tower of all places, complete with granite countertops and panoramic views. There was a state-of-the-art gym and a pool in the building somewhere, twice-monthly laundry collection and grocery delivery, optional cleaning and turn-down service - and Phil still wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to truly settle in to the place. 

It made sense to live in the tower - he was Stark’s new head of security after all, on call twenty-four/seven - but then again he’d always been bound and moved by Tony’s every whim, ever since the day he’d made the miscalculation of befriending the man by saving his life in Afghanistan. He’d couched it as being convenient for Phil to move in, and yes, it was in that it would certainly cut down on his morning commute, but he wasn’t stupid. This new living arrangement would make it exceptionally difficult to escape the man-boy genius on a good day, nigh on impossible when Tony got some crazy idea into his head and started gunning for Phil’s attention with a vengeance. 

Shuddering, Phil crossed himself and took a long pull on his beer before dancing his way back to the couch. Glaring accusingly at the coffee table, which had the audacity to perch itself innocently against the far wall and well out of reach, he threw his feet up on a stray cardboard box and popped The Fellowship of the Ring into his laptop. One and a half beers later he’d mellowed considerably and had almost forgotten about the gimmicky, singing pizza delivery he was waiting for, at least until a sharp, rapping knock sounded against his front door. 

Speaking of gimmicky, singing pizza delivery… 

Ugh. 

Setting his open bottle on the floor, he approached the door with a suspicion he usually reserved for cafeteria coffee. If there was somebody in a mascot costume out there… 

Fingers on the deadbolt, he pressed his eye to the peephole to get an idea of just exactly what he was in for. 

Huh. 

Not much apparently - the glass was fish-eyed and a little hazy, and only provided him a view of a smudge of black over beige, a hood against Stark’s corporate wallpaper. Have to fix that - it wouldn’t do for the head of Stark Security to slack off when it came to his own home-safety precautions, not to mention the dozens of other employees Tony kept on-ground. 

Shaking his head at his own poor stalling techniques, Phil sighed in resignation, flipped the lock and pulled the door open, ready with some nonsense excuse sitting on the tip of his tongue. 

An excuse he promptly swallowed when he froze in the doorway like an idiot, staring dumbfoundedly at the delivery boy on the other side as a distinctive strike of heat flashed through his body. 

Holy hell. 

Who were the pizza places hiring these days? 

Not pimply, brace-faced teenagers, that was for sure, because the man standing on his doorstep was exactly that - a _man_. Delivery boy didn’t even being to cover it. This guy was gorgeous, a couple inches taller than Phil and broad across the chest, dressed in a black leather motorcycle jacket covered in gold zippers and studs. Black cargo pants were tucked sloppily into unlaced jump boots, tight across the hips and belted with more glittering gold buckles and Phil felt his body tense, nerves tingling. This man felt for all the world like an assassin - muscled, still, deadly - and Phil certainly knew the type, but he’d never been hit so hard by a wave of _hot-danger-pretty-pissed_ in his life. 

Blinking himself out of his stupor, he dragged his gaze back up, back to a face half-shadowed by a black hood. All he could see in the lowered light of the hallway was a strong jaw and a harsh mouth, lips ticking at one corner in the beginnings of a sneer that made him swallow thickly. Lifting the plain white pizza box balanced on his palm, the man drew back slightly like he was going to fast-pitch the thing, chin jerking up to reveal sharp, shadowed, khol-rimmed eyes. Meeting Phil’s gaze he faltered on the threshold, stuttered just a little as he pulled up short, eyes narrowing and mouth curling into a frown. It seems like an eternity passes between them in that moment, a clichéd electric shock that saw Phil’s heart beating painfully in his chest, and left him unsure if he was about to be kissed or kicked. 

_Shit, where had he packed his taser?_

Taking a step back, the man lowered the box and squared his feet, and Phil recognized a fighting stance when he saw one. Shifting his own weight, he prepared to slam the door pizza be damned when a low, gruff voice stopped him. 

“You’re not Stark.”

**AVAVA**

The # 5 Special didn’t get ordered all that often. The # 7, sure, that one got called in all the time, but everybody loved _The Hawkeye_. He was charming and polite, sweet, but a little bit playful, a little bit of a good-natured trickster. The # 5 though, _The Ronin_ , that one was… an _acquired taste_.

Don’t get him wrong, the pizza was damn good, just like everything Bruce turned out of his super-science ovens, but the delivery that came with it… well. 

Suffice it to say that _The Ronin_ was only ordered by certain regulars, and Tony Stark was not one of them. 

In fact, Tony Stark only ever ordered the # 1, _The Captain America_ , a Brooklyn-style pepperoni pizza with a side of good ole boy-next-door Steve Rogers. The crazy genius had become such a consistent regular since Bruce had introduced them all that they’d taken to calling him Pepperoni-Tony around the shop, teasing Steve relentlessly about his blatant admirer. Hell, at this point the billionaire had practically funded Steve’s art school tuition single-handedly through his outrageous tipping habits. Gross part was that Steve seemed to like him right back, the ass, but neither of them seemed willing to actually do anything about it. 

Still, it made it easy for Clint to slip into his Ronin headspace for the night when Tony’s key-code went through the system. Rough, dark, domineering, it was a gimmick, a mask he wore along with the costumed black and gold, but the undercurrent of anger was all Clint. If Stark thought he could string Steve along like that just to drop him for someone else he had another thing coming. Didn’t matter that they weren’t actually a couple - expectations had been created over the last two years and Clint was fully prepared to shove his pizza down his throat, box and all when the door of Stark Tower’s Apartment 2634 swung open. 

But it wasn’t Stark. 

Startled, confused, he heard himself snarl the accusation and saw the man in front of him steel himself, saw his eyes narrow. 

“No,” he replied, calm but insistent, the voice of a man who knew how to take control of an escalating situation. “Just a friend. Phil. Coulson. Stark only recommended the place. How did you…” 

“He gave you his code,” Clint said distractedly as the realization hit him. 

_Shit_. 

_That was against the rules_. 

Straightening out of his instinctive fighting stance, Clint lowered the pizza box and took a step back. 

“Stark’s a regular,” he explained - though maybe not for much longer. “Wasn’t expecting… _you_.” 

Excuse made, Clint took his chance to look the man up and down. Calculating behind thick-rimmed glasses, trim, muscled, and ready in an Army Rangers t-shirt, a little older but no less attractive or commanding for it… 

Clint like-y. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” the man replied dryly, and oh, daddy has claws. “In that case feel free to hand over the goods and go.” 

Arching an eyebrow, Clint frowned before shaking his head minutely, stepping back into his Ronin role. 

“I don’t think so,” he growled, making it a threat and a promise on one breath. “You get what you pay for Coulson. The Ronin Special - dinner and a show.” 

“That’s really not necessary,” he protested, but Clint had already shouldered roughly past him into the apartment, playing up his character and wondering just exactly why the guy was so adamant about getting his pizza and seeing him back out the door. 

“Most people look forward to this part,” he purred silkily, putting the pizza down on one of the many boxes standing around the cluttered space. Seemed a little soon to be ordering a stripper if he’d just moved in, but who was he to question how the guy got his stress-relief. “First time?” 

“You could say that,” the man, _Coulson_ , answered. Don’t usually go for singing pizza. Or dancing pizza. Whatever you’re going to do.” 

“Oh I’m gonna dance for you Coulson,” he rumbled, dark and hoarse and dangerous. “And you’re gonna sit and you’re gonna like it.” 

He shouldn’t. This guy wasn’t tested, wasn’t vouched for no matter how hot he was, but Tony’s suspected betrayal had put Clint in quite a mood tonight and he was deep in his Ronin headspace now, willing to play with this new person, this man with the nice muscles and the Rangers t-shirt who looked like he could actually take Clint if he had to. Who scowled at Clint’s orders but sat down in the middle of his couch with a short huff, who looked like he might put up a good fight against this before he finally submitted, whose pale, soft throat looked vulnerable and bare, made Clint want to wrap his fingers around it gently just to feel his pulse jump, to feel him swallow. 

But that was what Ronin did wasn’t it, what men and women who ordered the # 5 were looking for. A little scare, a little nervousness, a little rough treatment, but still safe knowing it wouldn’t go any further than that, no lasting impressions be they physical or otherwise. Just a single night, a blip in their otherwise quiet lives before Clint put his clothes back on and left them to their pizza and their other vices. 

Spying a laptop sitting open on a nearby box, Clint ignored the fact that the guy was apparently a Lord of the Rings geek and took a thumb drive from his pocket, plugging it into the port. The paused movie immediately minimized itself thanks to Bruce’s coding - no doubt helped along by Stark - and instead brought up Clint’s music, the opening beats of Barry Adamson’s _Can’t Get Loose_ setting his nerves alight. 

God he loved this, this sense of power, control. Felt good, and hell, it was even fun most of the time. Coulson certainly wasn’t the worst-looking client he’d ever had - it wouldn’t be a hardship to dance for him. 

Sauntering forward, leading with his hips, Clint tugged off his fingerless gloves, stuffed them into his pocket and ran his hands down his chest. The man on the couch had gone silent and wide-eyed, staring like a shaky virgin, but he doubted that was true. There were a couple of empty bottles on the floor and maybe it really was his first time with a stripper, but in any case it wasn’t going to stop this. The music had already grabbed him and his body was swaying with it; flexible, sinuous, and sensual. 

Never let it be said that growing up in a circus didn’t come with a few advantages. 

Sliding his palms down over his thighs, Clint slunk forward and loomed over the couch, looked down with a wicked smirk as the music whispered smoky lyrics in his ears and he slid the zipper of his jacket down, one slow, painful inch at a time. Peeling the leather back off his shoulders, he let it fall to the floor and sank to his knees on the couch, straddling Coulson’s legs. The man made an almost-imperceptible sound in the back of his throat, leaning away from him as his hands came up and landed flat on Clint’s chest, palms firm and warm through the fabric of his cotton t-shirt. 

Mm, that was nice, but that was against the rules too, and Clint grabbed his wrists roughly, pinned his hands against the back of the couch. 

“Club rules boss,” he growled in the man’s ear, clicking his teeth in a mock snap that sent a shiver through the man beneath him. “No touching, at least until we get to know each other better.” 

“Not necessary,” Coulson said tightly, and Clint firmed up his grip reflexively, ready in case he got… _insistent_. “Off. Now.” 

Well _that_ wasn’t what he’d been expecting, and it set Clint back on his haunches with a surprised jolt, one eyebrow cocked in confusion as he set the man’s wrists free. He was still leaning back and away from Clint, and he raised an eyebrow of his own as he waited for Clint to oblige, but his surprise had gotten him a little stuck as the song finally faded off and left them in silence. 

“Please,” he added flatly, and that was enough to prod Clint into action, jumping off his lap and backing up a few paces, tilting his head to one side as Coulson stood and rubbed his wrists, frowning. 

“Aw hell,” he muttered as realization struck for the second time that night, “He didn’t tell you.” 

“What?” Coulson snapped, glaring in Clint’s direction. “That I was ordering a…” 

“Stripper?” Clint finished. 

Shit. 

He’d seen that look before. 

“A dancer,” the man corrected, tone deceptively light. 

Clint scoffed. 

“Sure,” he sniffed, picking his jacket up off the floor and slipping it back on, zipping it up and taking refuge in Ronin’s armor. 

This was _not_ the way he’d been hoping this night would go. 

“I’m sorry,” Coulson said as he turned to take his thumb drive from the computer, stuffing it into his pants pocket and pulling his gloves back on. “I didn’t…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint replied gruffly, pulling his hood up over his eyes before he turned to face him. “Not your fault. If anything I should probably be the one apologizing.” 

As much as it sucked to see the derision on Coulson’s face he could understand the shock, getting a lap dance from your delivery boy out of the blue like that. Not exactly consensual when one of you had no idea what they were in for. 

“Stark’s the one who’ll be sorry,” the man muttered under his breath, then he pinked, dragged a hand through his hair before moving toward the kitchen counter. “Let me get you a…” 

“Charge it to Stark’s account,” he shrugged. For whatever reason, he really didn’t want to take this man’s money. “Enjoy the pizza.” 

Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the apartment, closing the door just a little too hard behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh my gosh, this has been so fun to write!! Let me know what you think <3 **


	2. Family Place

It was raining by the time he got back out onto the sidewalk, Stark tower hanging over him like a derisive paragon of high society and weighing on him so heavy that he probably rode his motorcycle a little faster than he should’ve getting out of there. It was spitting that nasty misty shit that kicked up gray filth all over the city and made you actually feel the pollution you were breathing in, but bike safety wasn’t exactly in the forefront of his mind as he headed back to the shop. Swinging around behind the little pizzeria, tucked onto a corner between a bookstore and a barber shop, he screeched up to the alley curb and parked next to the dumpster, killing the bike’s rumbling engine and wrenching off his helmet. 

Well that futzing _sucked_. 

Slamming the heel of his hand against the tank of his bike, Clint scrubbed his cheek against his sleeve roughly, cursing himself for letting one stupid misunderstanding get to him so bad. He couldn’t help it though - he knew what he was, ok, and yeah, maybe he even liked to dance, but the look on Coulson’s face, that blank discomfort… 

It had been a while but he’d seen that look before, that look that felt half-pitying, half-disgusted and all the way superior. 

_Sucked_. 

Well what-the-hell-ever. 

Dick. 

Twelve to one said that Clint made more money than he did, and he wasn’t stuck in an office with stacks of paperwork for company. 

Hell, he’d put that money down on a bet that Coulson was some kind of corporate G-man, walking around in Gucci suits with a stick up his ass all day. 

Climbing off the bike, Clint turned his face up to the rain for just a minute, waited until his cheeks cooled and he felt a little more settled before hauling open the back door and stepping inside. The heat and bustle of the pizzeria hit him like a freight train, seeped in under the leather of his jacket and filled up his chest with warmth as the laugh-and-clatter Clint was so familiar with came blasting through his hearing aids. Unable to hold on to all of his black mood in the face of that feeling, he shook the water from his hair - a habit he’d picked up from Lucky - turned down the volume in his ears, and headed toward the break room. 

When Fury had designed PizzaGrams - his latest pet-project after retiring as head of Stark Security two years ago - he’d set it up as a carry-out/delivery type place. Eliminating in-house dining meant he could easily re-appropriate the extra space for his employees, giving them a bank of lockers and a spacious, well-lit bathroom in addition to what had basically become a community lounge right out of the most frat-boy college Clint’s inexperienced mind could dream up. Mismatched couches, a flat-screen complete with gaming systems, mini-fridges full of candy and Coke - it was kind of a ridiculous mess but then again, they _were_ strippers delivering pizza, and Clint wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Because strippers aside, PizzaGrams was a family place, for all of them. 

Tossing his helmet onto Bucky’s favorite bean bag chair, Clint retrieved his civvies from his locker and headed back to the bathroom to swap out his clothes. As much as he’d like to hold on to the power-protection Ronin’s identity afforded him right now, technically they weren’t supposed to walk around out front in their dancing gear. It tended to ruin the mystery, and anyway, if Clint would only nut up and quit wallowing around in hurt feelings like a baby he wouldn’t need the leather jacket or the boots to make himself feel better. 

He’d been Ronin long before he’d started stripping, Hawkeye too, and both those identities were tougher than this, this pale, shaky jackass staring back at him in the mirror. 

Nick Fury’s Home for Stray Assassin’s… 

Ridiculous. 

But it had started with him, Hawkeye, and then he’d brought in Nat, the infamous Black Widow, who never went anywhere without her husband, the legendary Winter Soldier. An ex-carnie merc and two KGB spies, all three tired of leading lives of the run and ready for something a little less serious instead. Nat and Bucky worked for Stark Security now, pizza-stripped on the side because it was fun and because the pizzeria really _had_ become a home for all of them. Mad-scientist Bruce had had to quit his lab after a slip with the radiation bottle left him with some serious anger-management issues, but he’d found his zen again pulling pies in and out of the ovens and experimenting with new flavors. Ex-soldier Steve, Bucky’s best bro, somehow got a little relief from his PTSD in the chaotic environment that was PizzaGrams, to say nothing of a steady source of funding for his art classes. 

And Clint? 

Well, Clint danced, and for him it was mostly enough. 

It was definitely more than enough to live on - what he made here and what he made down at Cecily’s, the upscale, exclusive club where he waltzed around serving drinks in leather pants and Venetian masks. He wasn’t killing anymore, but every once in a while he still took the odd job as a favor to an old acquaintance, image management and a nice little boost to his income. 

Just sometimes… 

Sometimes more would be nice. 

Nights like tonight, when he wondered where he’d be if he’d actually gone to school as a kid, gotten his high school diploma and become something that the world couldn’t sneer at. Something that men like Phil Coulson couldn’t sneer at. 

Shoving off the counter, Clint shook his head and dragged on a pair of ripped jeans and scruffy purple Converse, changed his black t-shirt for a white one. 

What did he care what Phil Coulson thought of him - he certainly wasn’t going to see the man again after tonight. So he was hot - so what? Clint worked with some of the prettiest bastards he’d ever met, and he was never short of interested companions should the odd night come along when he didn’t want to sleep alone. 

Still scolding himself, still shaking his head, he stashed his gear and headed back out front, letting the cheerful, hectic babble chase the tension out of his body. 

Located within walking distance of approximately four college campuses, Pizza Grams was open until three am, and while the “specials” weren’t listed on the actual menu, the pizza itself was delicious enough that they did damn good business. Students tended to flock in after dark, picking up pies by the slice as they trolled back and forth between bars and libraries or calling ahead to order singing delivery for jokes, birthdays, and parties. 

They had a regular staff for that part of it, a handful of young men and women to mop and wash the dishes and wear the stupid pizza-slice mascot suits, singing the rhyming poems Fury ripped off of Dr. Seuss and emailed out every three months or so. The rest of it, the stripping and the secret menu were exactly that - a secret. Student staff were kept to short shifts, didn’t have access to the break room or the computer system that registered the key codes given out at dancer-discretion to clients who were both doggedly loyal to Pizza Grams and thoroughly background checked. Not that any of them weren’t capable of dealing with a client who got a little too handsy, but better safe than sorry and anyway, Fury had promised to ruin any of them that caused him a lawsuit or excessive paperwork. 

Anyway, it was Wednesday night, almost one o’clock and they were verging on the edge of a lull, midweek a little less frantic than the Friday through Saturday crowd. Chances were good that Clint wouldn’t be called out again tonight, so he skirted around behind the three kids working the last of the walk-in rush, grabbed a slice of Bruce’s famous apple-pie pizza off the line, and wandered into the kitchen, munching as he went. 

“Clint’s back!” Bucky hollered as he entered, glancing up from where he and Natasha leaned over a long, stainless steel table, knives flashing as they prepped raw ingredients for tomorrow's toppings. 

Loudmouth, that drew everybody's attention except Bruce's, who was bent over the brick ovens with wooden pizza-paddle in hand and who tended to be a little absent minded anyway. For everyone else though it was all eyes on Clint; Bucky’s sharp and unreadable as ever, Nat’s flashing with too-perceptive concern, and Steve’s quiet and awkwardly anxious but trying not to show it. They all three knew that he’d been called out by Stark’s personal code tonight, and no doubt each of them were working through exactly how they planned to react. Bucky's knives in particular were landing with a little less rhythm and finesse than they normally would, and while Steve was normally all sunny grins and confidence he looked almost bashful the way he dropped his eyes and continued to knead the massive lump of floury pizza dough in front of him. 

"Well?" Bucky demanded, driving the point of his knife into the wooden cutting board so that it stood upright without his help, quivering in place. "I hope you gave that jackass something to chew on other than the pizza Clint." 

"Bucky," Steve warned, frowning when Tasha and even Bruce hummed their agreement, then opening his mouth to come to what was no doubt a rousing defense on behalf of Tony Stark. "Don't..." 

"Wasn't him." 

Clint's abrupt announcement was met with silence and stares, but he didn't miss the way Steve's mouth fell open just a little before he ducked his head, cheeks pinking as he tried and failed to hide the barest hint of a smile from the notorious Hawkeye's gaze. Hell, he couldn't blame him, even after the shift night he'd had – whatever there was between Steve and the eccentric billionaire, Clint could only hope it worked out for both of them. 

Unlikely but hey, a guy could hope, right? 

"So what, he gave his code to someone else?" Bucky asked, and both Clint and Nat cast him a glare as the question knocked Steve out of his moment of relief. "Leave it to Stark to break the rules." 

"We knew this would happen eventually," Natasha said cooly, her Russian accent creeping in on her words, making her husband twitch beside her. He knew when he was being scolded. "It is in Stark's nature." 

"Gimme a second Clint," Steve said, his voice gone quiet and tight as he dusted his hands on a nearby towel and reached for the strings of his apron. "I'll blacklist him for you." 

"Aw, leave it Stevie," Clint mumbled as the man approached, intent on the office computer but stumbling under the intensity of Clint's puppy pout – also learned from Lucky. "We're all used to Stark by now, and we were expecting him to pull some kind of crap. I mean, _I_ wasn't, not tonight anyway, but..." 

Trailing off, Clint shrugged casually, tried not to let the rest of the night come rushing back to haunt him. If he let it show on his face, Steve would absolutely black list Stark, which would lose him his best customer not to mention the weird not-really-a-relationship thing the two had going. The man was currently looking pretty unconvinced, but Clint stuck out his lower lip and let himself fall against Steve's chest, looking up and batting his eyelashes outrageously until Bucky barked a laugh and Steve just barely cracked a smile, shoving him off and slapping at him playfully. 

"You sure?" he asked, serious again as he bit his lip and frowned. "You were ok?" 

Clint nodded. 

He really hadn't been, but not like Steve meant. Contrary to appearances, Fury and the rest of the team actually did take safety pretty seriously, hence the personalized codes that were only given out after a customer had been thoroughly background-checked and Facebook-stalked. They tried not to show up on just anyone's doorstep, and if there was going to be more than one person waiting for pizza, customers were required to signify a party or they got the boot. 

"It was fine," he answered, scrubbing a hand through his hair, a tell that made Natasha perk up like a damned blood hound. "I mean awkward as hell – the guy obviously didn't know what he was in for. Wouldn't even let me finish the dance. Won't be hearing from him again. Anyway, no use losing _your_ best-paying customer over it. Just make sure you give him hell the next time you seen him, you hear me Stevie?"

Turning painfully red, Steve nodded, staring down at his sneakers until Clint gave him a rough, one-armed hug and let him go again. Seemed over after that – Bruce was still schlepping pizza's, unconcerned by the goings-on as he muttered ohms under his breath, Bucky ribbing Steve good-naturedly about all the ways he might 'get back' at Tony Stark as the two went back to their respective tasks, but Clint was no idiot and he'd learned better. Nat was still staring at him, quiet and narrow-eyed, and when she finally turned to carry her bins of diced green pepper and jalapenos toward the walk-in, Clint followed obediently behind.

"I do not like this," she said, her back to him as he pulled the cooler door closed and shut them up in the dark.

He could hear her moving around, making room on the shelves for her containers unerringly despite the pitch black, and the only reason he could settle like this, completely blind was because he knew she was there in front of him.

"Come on Tasha," he whined, leaning back against the door and letting the chill tingling along his spine. "You really want Steve to lose a good thing like Stark?"

"This I do not care about," she said flatly.

She did, he knew she did, but he didn't contradict her.

"No. What worries me is you little bird."

The nickname, spoken in thick Russian, was followed by her hand finding his cheek, cupping it in her palm until he turned into the caress and she stepped in close, stroking his hair as he wrapped his arms around her small frame and buried his face in her neck.

"I have not seen that look on your face in a long time Clint," she murmured.

Huffing, Clint squirmed, pushed his head into her hand until she tugged gently on his hair.

It was true – he couldn't deny that much. It was one of the best things about only seeing regular clients, clients you picked. Meant chances were slim to none that you would walk in on what he'd walked in on tonight. No real likelihood that his customers were gonna deride him for who he was, what he did, look at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of their shoe just because he liked to dance and took his clothes off for money. The clients he knew, the ones that ordered _The Ronin _or _The Hawkeye_ – they liked him. Not like Tony obviously liked Steve, but they liked stripper-him, appreciated his talents and what he offered.__

Helped to keep Clint's negative self-talk at bay, when he got nothing but glowing reviews and stolen kisses before being released back into the world with paper money cluttering up his pockets.

Tax-free too.

So suck on _that_ Coulson.

"This is his name?" Tasha asked, and oh shit, did he say that out loud?

"He didn't do anything wrong Tash," he mumbled against her neck. "He just... doesn't like strippers. Not everybody does – it's not a big deal."

"Then why does it upset you so?"

Because it sucked.

Because it still hurt.

Because it brought back all the old crap he'd had slung at him all his life – how he was stupid and loud and never sat still, how he was worthless and would never amount to anything...

Clint didn't answer.

"You like him," she speculated suddenly, and Clint squawked, a noise half dismissive scoff and half resigned laugh.

"I mean sure," he admitted, letting her go and straightening up so he could shrug in the dark. "He was hot. Had the competent older guy thing going on. But that's it Tash. Not like I know him, and I told you already, he won't be calling back."

Nat made no comment, but he could feel her frowning at him in the chill black.

"Don't tell Bucky," he whined.

"Don't tell Bucky what?" The man asked, pulling open the cooler door just in time to catch Clint's plea, flooding the walk-in with light and nearly dropping his armload of containers in the process.

"That Clint is attracted to a man who is hot, competent, and older," she quoted, "But who has the unfortunate lot of being both friends with Tony Stark and unable to appreciate the finer points of his profession."

Bucky's face immediately darkened and he shoved his stack of tupperware haphazardly onto the shelves, leaving his wife to leap forward to catch them as he rounded on Clint intently.

"He give you shit tonight Clint?" he asked insistently, eyes dark and blank and too much like the Winter Soldier for Clint's taste. "What's his name?"

"His name is Coulson, but we will not be acting on this because Clint knows better than to let a meaningless stranger's opinion damage his view of himself," Natasha stated primly, taking Bucky's hand off Clint's shoulder. "Isn't that right, little bird?"

"Course," he mumbled, shrugging.

Was hard, and maybe he wouldn't be able to shake it _right now_ , but he would eventually and at least this would keep Bucky from going off half-cocked. He could still be a little feral sometimes, especially when someone threatened the little family he'd fought himself so hard to accept.

"It's fine Buck," he insisted when the man frowned, looked skeptical. Leaning in, he gave him a fast, tight hug. "Thanks though, Really."

"Of course," Nat murmured.

"Yeah, sure," Bucky shrugged gruffly, moment over. "Now stop cuddling my wife in the coolers Barton!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **This story makes me crave pizza!! Review me please <3 **  
> 


	3. Overhaul

The pizza was perfect, even the leftovers he ended up microwaving the next morning. 

Hot, crispy crust, not too much cheese, with something dark and smoky underneath that sat on the back of his tongue and reminded him too much of the man who'd dropped it off. 

A stripper, lord! 

Leave it to Stark to set him up like that. 

Not that he would've had a problem with it if he'd been prepared, the guy was definitely... 

Nope. 

No. 

Nie. 

Not going there. 

He'd already lost sleep over that mess, climbing into bed stiff and unsatisfied. Jerking off had seemed... inappropriate somehow, especially since he'd gotten the feeling he'd offended the man. 

_Ronin_... 

It hadn't been Phil's intention to insult him. He had no moral objections to the profession as long as it was consensual, and the state of his pants had made it pretty obvious he had no personal objections either. He'd just been surprised, that's all. Three beers in, worn out from schlepping boxes all day, he'd been loose and tired and relaxed, and that was the _only_ reason he'd let Ronin get as far as he had in the first place. 

All the way onto Phil's lap, stripped sinfully from his leather jacket and pinning Phil's wrists against his couch to a sexy, whisper-dark beat... 

He'd been caught off guard. 

A nasty voice in the back of his mind whispered that it was too bad he hadn't been caught off guard _enough_ , but he tamped it down brusquely and finished his hasty breakfast, popping the last bite of pizza into his mouth and wiping his hands on a paper towel before straightening his tie and heading down to the main floor. A glance at his watch and a half minute's thought had him reconsidering, bypassing security and taking the elevator all the way down to the underground sublevels, where he let himself in to Tony Stark's secret basement workshop with a swipe of his shiny new Head of Security badge. 

Said genius was bent over a light table, sketching the interior mechanism of some sort of power cell while ACDC blasted from the speakers overhead, masking Phil's entrance until he was close enough to reach out and slap the man. 

He didn't, but for a moment he seriously considered it. 

"JARVIS, kill the music please?" he asked quietly, but the AI's hearing was better than his creator's and he switched the music off without hesitation. 

Jerking at the sudden silence, Tony straightened up and glared at the ceiling, a reprimand already waiting on his tongue when he caught sight of Phil's reflection in the glass across from him. Spinning around on his stool, his face split into a wide grin. 

"Agent!" he greeted, his hand flashed out to grab Phil's wrist. "You're here. Excellent." Dragging Phil across the floor toward a heavy, electronic door he began gesturing widely with his free hand, mussed hair and graphite smudges giving him a familiar air of frenetic, unfettered excitement. "The Mark II is almost finished and I wanted your opinion." 

"You already have it," Phil reminded him, retrieving his wrist from Tony's grip as he tapped in a keycode and bent to scan his retina before practically skipping through the door into a small anti-chamber, Phil following after at a much more sedate pace. "You need to keep this silent Stark, under wraps. No one finds out, not even Colonel Rhodes. If the United States government, or god forbid the World Security Council were to find out what you've created this time..." 

"Christ Coulson, you're such a stick in the mud," he complained, rolling his eyes in exasperation as he took hold a a remote and hit a button, activating a rising panel in the floor. "I'm taking care of it. I mean, I hired _you_ didn't I? So you can take care of it for me." 

"I'm not here to babysit you," Phil warned, crossing his arms, but Tony just snorted. 

"Now you sound like Pepper," he dismissed, but any reply Phil could have made was lost on the man, because there in the middle of the floor was a suit of gleaming gold, magnificent and streamlined and far improved from the original model Phil had picked Tony out of so many years ago in the middle of an Afghan desert. It was just as remarkable if not more so than that original miracle of mechanics, a complete overhaul of the original design, and Phil would die before he admitted it but the suit did manage to steal his breath, if only because of the potential consequences it could bring down on its little metal head. 

"It works Coulson," Tony breathed, circling the suit with a look of awe on his face. "It really works. I've put it through every simulation I can think of, fixed the icing problem, fixed the flight stabilizers... _everything_. Do you understand, do you understand what this could mean? What I could do, what we could do if..." 

"Tony." 

His name, his first name, the one Phil so rarely used brought the man up short, snapped him to attention, and Phil sighed at the thought of the months ahead of him, of reigning the man in, keeping him undercover when he was so clearly champing at the bit for a chance to prove himself. 

"You have to wait," he urged. "You're right – you have a chance here to do something remarkable, to make a difference in the world. I believe that. But you _can't_ do it alone, even with the suit. You _know_ that. You brought me in to find you a team, to help you put this thing together – now you need to be patient and let me do that." 

For a minute Tony just stared, and something in flickered in his eyes that Phil had never seen before, but then he was shrugging it off and replacing it with a trademark grin. 

"Relax Agent," he chuckled, clapping Phil on the shoulder. "I'm not planning on going off half-cocked – not this time. Too much to lose you know? No, I just wanted to know what you thought of the paint job." 

Taken aback and yet altogether unsurprised, Phil quirked an eyebrow and looked back to the suit, glittering and far too bright. 

"It's a little much for my taste," he answered dryly, relieved when Tony barked a laugh. "A bit... ostentatious for superhero work don't you think?" 

"Probably," he said, walking over to a bank of computers and touching a few keys. "But pious and humble I am not. JARVIS, throw some hot rod red in there, see how that looks." 

"Very good sir," the computer replied, projecting a splash of red across the body of the suit. 

"Nice. Paint it, yeah? And lock the door behind us." 

"Now can I go to work?" Phil asked, following him out through the workshop and into the elevator. 

"Well aren't you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning," he grinned, his eyes narrowing as he suddenly realized that he had Phil trapped alone in a small space. "What did _you_ get up to last night?" 

"You know damn well," he growled, all his irritation and embarrassment flooding back and making the tips of his ears burn. "Stark, what the hell?" 

"Woah, ok, not the reaction I was expecting!" Tony yelped, backing up and raising his hands in surrender. "What did you do, put in a bad order?" 

"It was _fine_ ," he said through gritted teeth, "Though I should've known I was hoping for too much when I asked for a simple recommendation. Ended up getting a little more than I'd thought I'd paid for." 

"Aw, bite off more than you could chew Agent?" he teased before ducking quickly out of arm's reach as the elevator doors slid open onto the security floor. 

"You know how I feel about surprises," he snapped. 

Stalling in the middle of the hallway, cubicles on every side and security personnel bustling back and forth, the grin faded off Tony's face, only to be replaced with exasperation and disappointment. 

"Aw hell Phil, what did you do?" he demanded, dragging a hand through his hair. "Seriously? One night, I just wanted you to get out and have a life for _one night_..." 

"Well I'm not interested," he scowled, shoving past him toward the office at the other end of the floor that had been brass-plated with his name. "I can't believe you would spring that on me..." 

"Oh come off it Coulson," Tony called, following after him. "Was just trying to set you up with a little fun – god knows you need it. You're still letting Audrey mess with your head even after that bitch left you three days from the alter and you've been punishing yourself with horrible dates and abstinence ever since." 

Phil froze, hand clenching the doorknob in an iron grip as anger and resentment bubbled up in his chest, sent a flash of ice through his entire body. Behind him Tony had frozen too, a sharp intake of breath indicating that he'd realized exactly what he'd said and was now regretting it. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, awkward and anxious but approximating sincere. Audrey didn't get brought up often, and as with the stripper-gram, it was unlikely he'd meant it with any malicious intent. For a genius Tony did a remarkable amount without thinking about it first. "That was shitty." 

"It's fine," Phil said tightly, turning the knob and pushing the door open. "We’re fine. Just let me get to work." 

Stepping inside, he let the door fall shut, unsurprised to find two people standing in the midst of the clutter waiting for him. He hoped their presence would be enough to deter Tony, but he had never been easily dissuaded from anything, sticking his head in through the door with a pout on his face. 

"I really am sorry," he repeated, causing Phil to roll his eyes as he headed for the desk buried beneath mountains of poorly stacked paperwork. 

"I said it's fine Stark," he reassured him, letting some of the chill in his voice thaw if only to get Tony to drop it. "Now get out of my office." 

"Coulson..." 

"Out!" 

Frowning, eyeing Phil's pointed finger with a look that promised revenge, Tony let the door swing shut behind him with a crack, leaving Phil to face the man and woman waiting for him. A quick glance said they both looked vaguely and strangely familiar, put a strange tingle on the back of his neck but he shook it off, focused instead on finding a safe place to shift the box that was currently occupying his chair. 

"This is Coulson?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow and looking to the redhead at his side. 

"Coulson, yes," he replied distractedly, emptying his seat. "Phil Coulson. I apologize for my tardiness - unfortunately one of the downsides to finding myself at the beck and call of Tony Stark is finding myself at the beck and call of Tony Stark." Dropping into his chair, he shuffled through the mess on the desktop before coming up with two personnel files, flipped them open and scanned the topsheets. "But please, sit. Make yourselves... well, as comfortable as you can. James Barnes and Natasha Roma..." 

Trailing off, he finally recognized that warning feeling, where he'd seen these two before. His gaze snapped up of its own volition, immediately traced their features and cross-referenced them to what he knew, assessed their positions in their chairs and all potential weapons at everyone's disposal. 

Not that he was expecting an altercation – obviously this was just one more thing Tony had forgotten to warn him about, but dear god! 

The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier! 

"Problem?" Romanov asked, practically a pur. 

"Forgive me," he apologized, collecting his thoughts. "I didn't realize Mr. Stark was employing ex..." 

"Exotic dancers?" Barnes demanded, his eyes flashing. 

"Excuse me?" he replied, arching an eyebrow as confusion took center stage. "No, I... ex-KGB. Dancers?" 

"You know our work?" Romanov interrupted, casting a narrow look at her husband before turning sharp, assessing eyes on Phil. 

"I do," he acknowledged with a cautious nod. "I ran some black ops once upon a time, in my younger days. Winter Soldier and I have crossed paths before." 

"That be an issue?" the man asked, leaning back in his seat and giving Phil a once over of his own. It was a cold look, the eyes of a predator, but Phil didn't cower, instead brushed it off as though it had had no effect on him whatsoever. 

"Not at all," he replied, shuffling the papers in front of him into a more orderly pile. "I was... an admirer of the work you did in Davao City, you and the Widow. But I do wonder how you've managed to find yourselves _here_." 

It was a good question, an important one. When he'd known them during his Ranger years, the two assassins had already abandoned their Soviet roots and turned their talents for the better, but there were always rumors and Phil needed to know exactly what he was dealing with. After all, loyalty was best understood by motive. 

"We find ourselves here through a mutual friend," the Widow responded after a moment's quiet speculation. "And a collaborative side business." 

Phil laughed sardonically. 

"Yes, Tony has his fingers in a lot of pies," he muttered, making a mental note to wring the man's neck when next they met. 

In front of him, Barnes snorted, then flinched when he got an elbow to the ribs for his trouble. 

"Perhaps," Romanov demurred, crossing one leg over the other and flicking a bit of imaginary lint from her knee. "Though this was not the friend I referred to. But let us compare personal lives later – for now, back to business." 

Phil frowned, uncertain what she meant, but nodded none the less. 

"Yes," he agreed, handing them both a thin packet of papers he'd unearthed. "Stark Security. I've been hired both to review what measures are already in place and to begin an overhaul to enhance the privacy and protection surrounding Tony Stark and two of his properties. As the senior-most security agents here, I hope that the three of us will be able to work closely in making this happen." 

The assassins before him said nothing, only waited in silence, because of course they knew, they knew as well as Phil did. 

There was more to this. 

"In the interest of full disclosure," he began slowly, choosing his words carefully despite having rehearsed this speech many, many times, "I wasn't hired for the sole purpose of reviewing Stark's personal safety. We're working on something, an... _initiative_ of sorts. When I bring this to you in a few weeks, I hope you'll both seriously consider coming on board." 

The two looked at each other, had some sort of silent conversation before turning back to Phil and nodding in perfect synchronicity. 

"Excellent," he nodded, getting to his feet and offering them his hand. "Then let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review me please!! <3 Much love!


	4. First Impressions

Long week. 

Long... long week. 

Letting himself into his apartment, Phil locked the door securely behind him and let himself fall back against it, heaving a sigh and dropping his shoulders as he forced himself to let go of the tension in the back of his neck. He had the beginnings of a pounding headache threatening at the back of his skull and for a minute he let himself consider sliding to the floor, collapsing in a heap just to give his aching feet a rest, but he knew he wouldn't get back up if he did. 

Leaving his jacket, briefcase, and shoes in a messy pile just inside the door, he dragged himself into the bathroom and forced his body through the motions of showering, scrubbing down quickly and avoiding the mirror when he climbed back out. He didn't care to see his hangdog expression, the dark circles under his eyes or the stubble on his chin. He'd be tempted to shave if he looked, to finish cleaning himself up beyond the bare-bones necessities he'd just cycled through. Instead he tugged on a pair of soft, worn sweats and a t-shirt, popped a pair of prescription pain killers, and shuffled toward his newly-stocked kitchen. 

It was the fruit bowl that had tipped him off, as soon as he'd entered the apartment. He'd finished putting the place together since the Sunday prior, working ten hour days learning Stark's systems and employees before coming home to put in several more hours moving furniture and getting everything into its proper place. The blue ceramic bowl hadn't been on the counter when he'd left that morning and certainly hadn't come out of the boxes that had made the perilous journey from downstate New York. Approaching it wearily, he sank down onto a barstool and tugged the slip of paper underneath it free, scanned Tony's thin, neat block print.

**555-7492**

**It really is the best pizza around. Just don't order any specials.**

**\- Stark**

Well.

It was a better apology than some he'd gotten from the man. 

On one memorable occasion he'd sent Phil three beribboned wicker baskets filled with a dozen baby rabbits each, all of which had been promptly returned to the pet store but for two, which had gone to Phil's niece and nephew just in time for Easter. 

That he had spent a solid hour cuddling with them all on the floor of his living room before returning them was a secret he would take to his grave. 

Still. 

He wasn't sure he was ready for another pizzagram, no matter what Stark said about the specials. 

Not that he wasn't tempted – a hot, fresh pizza sounded damn good right now, when he was achy and starving and tired, way too beat to even consider cooking. A pizza would be just what the doctor ordered, and hey, if it came with the chance to apologize to Ronin, to see him again... 

Nope, not ready. 

Ignoring the sharp, hot spike of lust that rolled lazily through his belly, he pushed himself to his feet and crossed behind the counter to investigate the contents of the fridge, wondering what exactly Tony had had delivered considering Phil had yet to place an order with the grocery service. He was surprised to find a judicious mix of healthy and junk food, pre-packaged and raw ingredients inside – further evidence that Tony's apology was sincere. If he was angry or in the middle of a pout he would've left Phil with one or the other, a refrigerator filled entirely with spinach and kale or cabinets stuffed with Cheetos. 

No, it was far more likely that this was penance for the comments he'd made about Audrey than the fact that he'd sent Phil a stripper. The latter was just a joke, one he'd already apologized for, but the way he'd sparked off though, that was something that had cut a little deeper. Phil's disaster of an engagement was still a sore point, one he only talked about when he'd been plied liberally with Stark's good scotch – see very, very rarely. He knew the man was worried about him, knew that he was blunt and aggressive by nature and had learned to deal with that, but it had still felt like an attack and Stark must have realized it. He'd left Phil alone all week, hadn't hovered or pestered, instead answering questions and phone calls quickly and efficiently. 

Now here he was making sure that Phil's cupboards were stocked and he actually had access to decent pizza in uptown New York, without the accompanying lap dance. 

He should probably put the man out of his misery. 

Wasn't like he hadn't _appreciated_ the dance, what little of it he saw. 

The man had been beautiful, strong and flexible and a little wild, a little dark and dangerous... 

Beautiful. 

Hell, if he could do it again, if he were sober and expecting it... 

Well, let's just say he wouldn't have panicked and pushed the guy off, insulted him by implying that his profession was something Phil disdained. Probably lost his chance well and good there, if he'd ever had one in the first place... 

Well done Coulson. 

No pizza for you. 

Hunting through the cabinets, Phil located a box of popcorn and threw a bag into the microwave, leaned against the counter while he waited for it to pop. Once it had finished spinning, he dumped the bag into a bowl, grabbed a banana and a bottle of tea from the fridge door, and headed back into the living room, dimming the lights as he went. 

He should go to bed, he knew that, even as he flopped down onto the couch and stretched out, got a throw pillow situated under his shoulders and got comfortable. The cushions seemed to suck him in, his body sinking deep, and he knew he wasn't getting up again but to hell with it, tomorrow was Saturday and Saturday meant a day off. Phil had never been one to lust after weekends or vacation time, but the thought of falling asleep in front of Supernanny, waking up late and taking the time to fix pancakes and coffee actually put a weary smile on his face. 

Settling back, popcorn within easy reach and volume turned down low, he let the stress of the week slip away, tried to quiet his racing thoughts. Even here in his own home, in the quiet evening dark they didn't stop, only slowed down a little as a chronic lack of sleep caught up with him. He'd gone through each and every person employed by Stark security in the last six days, hundreds of files scanned and rated. Most of them were immediately shelved, perfectly serviceable individuals, while approximately ten percent were set aside for evaluation. Tony wasn't stupid – his background checks were the best Phil had ever seen - but he wasn't trained like Phil was, wasn't as experienced in certain things. That ten percent was begging for review, to say nothing of the two senior agents Natasha Romanoff and James Barnes. 

The Black Widow and the Winter Soldier. 

He'd say it again – leave it to Stark. 

He'd known that Stark was on some kick about building a team of "superheroes," but he'd put it off on the man's PTSD, a result of his captivity in Afghanistan and the resultant battle with Obadiah Stane. His longtime mentor's betrayal had done a real number on Tony, and Phil had been the only one Tony had trusted for months after that, even over Pepper Potts. He had been the one to convince the genius to keep the Iron Armor under wraps, to redirect the press and keep Tony's secret, but he'd expected the whole thing to be a project that burst into flame high and bright, only to quickly burn itself out. 

Then the man had offered him a job, asked him to be the puppeteer behind the comms and walked him into his office on his very first day to reveal two world-renowned assassin's waiting for him. 

He wanted them on the team, that much was clear. The 'business lunch' he'd dragged Phil to midway through the week was hardly necessary to make the point. Still, they had managed to hammer out some of the finer details over a delicate salmon piccata and a bottle of white wine. Phil would spend some time overseeing general security measures, mostly to ensure the safety and secrecy of the Iron Armor, but his primary objective would be to begin assessing potential candidates for Tony's initiative. 

Stark, Romanov, Barnes... Hawkeye. 

Tony had been making noises about tracking down the mercenary for some time now. His name was one that Phil was familiar with, same as with the Widow and the Soldier, but he was still an outlier, an unstable variable. There was far more he didn't know about Hawkeye's work than what he did, even if he tended to approve of the man's results. He was well known for being a remarkable shot, an incredible marksman, and he seemed to have a set of morals that few others in his profession did, enough so at least to put a bit of Phil's unease to rest. 

A good thing too, because Tony tended to be relentless when he'd sunk his teeth into something, and Phil had no illusions that he would be able to shake him off. 

Sighing, Phil set aside the last of his popcorn, rolled onto his side and dragged a hand-knitted afghan down from the back of the couch. 

Best to get started looking right away then. 

First thing Monday at least. 

He doubted that Hawkeye would be so easy to find as the Widow and the Winter Soldier had proved to be.

**AVAVA**

Humming an old circus tune under his breath, Clint swung through the back door of PizzaGrams and headed for the changing rooms. He was in a damned good mood tonight - one of his regulars had had a bachelorette party earlier in the evening and she and her maid of honor had been working on him for a long time to convince him to do it. He didn't typically take jobs with more than three people present – none of the dancers did – but he was glad he'd taken this one.

Dressed simply in black skinny jeans and a purple hoodie over a white t-shirt, _Hawkeye_ had had a pretty good time, dancing for the bride to be and then sticking around for about an hour to hang out, eat pizza, and generally keep the merriment going. It was kind of a specialty of his, the happy-go-lucky Hawkeye, who could lounge at the feet of a bridal party and sweet talk all the girls before breaking out the raunchiest joke he could think of to send them all into fits of the giggles. He'd gotten into a bit of a tussle with some Russians earlier in the week and he'd been worried that the tape over his broken nose might throw the girls off, make them nervous, but they'd all been tipsy on champagne by the time he'd gotten there with their pizzas and had declared that the bruise at the edge of his eye only made him look rakish, made him look like a good time. 

Clint had laughed it off, let the young women flirt and ruffle his hair and cling to his shoulders before directing them back to the party games, but now, looking at himself in the mirror, bright eyed and grinning around the shiner, he thought maybe they'd been right. 

He was damn cute, no matter what anyone said! 

Done for the night, Clint changed into a looser pair of jeans, carefully folded his zip-up and put it in his locker before dragging on a long-sleeve Henley and heading out to the kitchens. It had been a quiet night – spring break was only just coming to an end and the nearby college campuses were still fairly deserted. Bruce was baking off a single Margherita pizza for pickup, leaning against the ovens and drinking from a fancy infuser water bottle while the three junior employees cleaned the front of the shop, sweeping the floors and wiping down the line counter. The man was watching them calmly, sipping whatever weird drink he'd brought today, and not for the first time Clint wondered if the guy added something a little more... _recreational_ than tea leaves to the brew. He wore a hazy, floaty expression sometimes that made him suspicious. 

Not that Clint cared – it was just kinda funny to think about. It wasn't hard to imagine the man in some sweat lodge in India, cross-legged, wrists on his knees as he chanted and passed a pipe. 

"What has you smiling, little bird?" Natasha asked in Russian as Clint crossed the kitchen, came up to the long steel table where she and Bucky were once again prepping ingredients. 

Them and their knives – yeesh. 

"Eh, good night," he grinned, hopping up to sit on a nearby stool. "Where's Steve?" 

"Got called back to Stark's," Bucky answered, eyes sparkling mischievously. "He raided Tasha's locker. Bachelorette party went well though? Didn't have to warm up any cold feet did you?" 

Clint laughed, risked his fingertips by snatching a slice of fresh peach from Natasha's cutting board. 

"Nah, it was pretty easy. Everybody played by the rules – a little dancing, a little cake, a little flirting..." 

"Sounds fun." 

"It is good to see you smiling Clint," Natasha agreed. "You've been quiet this week, since Coulson." 

Clint clamped his mouth shut with a sharp click, felt his cheeks get pink. Shrugging, he leaned forward to snatch another slice of fruit, only to have Nat save herself the trouble by slapping an entire peach into his hand. 

"Right. So, um, how's that going by the way?" he asked casually, focusing on carving the skin off the fruit with a razor-thin paring knife Bucky had handed him. 

"I like him," she replied, causing both men to look at her with raised eyebrows. "He seems to be a man of good sense, with only the one exception." 

"He's good at what he does," Bucky agreed. "Directing a team, giving orders, convincing you to trust his judgment..." 

Clint swallowed, his mouth gone dry as ducked his head to hide his deepening blush. 

Shit. 

Like he needed any help being attracted to the guy. 

As much as he'd tried to forget about the man – _Coulson_ – he hadn't quite managed it since Sunday. Sure the guy had been a little bit of a jerk, but he hit a hell of a lot of Clint's buttons, _hard_. Now he was ticking the 'competent' and 'commanding' boxes too. 

To be fair, the man _had_ been caught off guard. Apologized too, and left a damn nice tip on Stark's account. If Clint as in a forgiving mood – and at the moment he was inclined to be – he'd be willing to admit that he'd overreacted just a little. Everyone was entitled to an opinion; if Coulson didn't like strippers who was Clint to judge him for that? At least he was civil, decent. 

Was too bad he'd never call again. 

"...and he actually got Stark to _apologize_!" Bucky crowed, startling Clint back to attention with his exuberance. "An honest-to-god apology. I have never seen that, not in all the time we've worked for him. We don't know what he was apologizing for, but..." 

"But this is not the point," Natasha concluded, watching Clint carefully. "The point is both that Coulson has the ability to elicit such a statement and that Stark has changed enough to make one." 

"He still wants you to come work for him," Bucky said off-handedly, switching seamlessly between slicing red onions and cubing sweet potatoes. "You could come with us on Monday." 

"He doesn't want me," Clint scoffed, rolling his eyes and tossing his peach pit across the kitchen in one long arc, swishing it neatly into a trash can. "He wants Hawkeye." 

"Does it matter?" 

" _Yes_. He doesn't know anything about either of us. You know for a genius, he's kind of an idiot." 

"A fact we knew from the way he's treated Steve," Natasha allowed. "But this initiative, this project he and Coulson are working on..." 

"He's already collected two experienced assassins," Bucky said, picking up the thread that his wife had left dangling. "And he's looking for a third. Makes you wonder..." 

"Makes you wonder," Clint agreed. "But we're out of the game, all three of us." 

Across from him, both Bucky and Natasha snorted, chuckled. 

"You two need to be careful." 

"Of course," Tasha nodded, wiping her hands on a towel and rounding the counter to sling an arm around his neck, drag him in for a hug. "But Coulson seems to have Stark well in hand, and he was honest with us from the beginning about this _initiative_. I am certain we will be meeting with him soon."

"Ugh, you mean he's a good guy?" Clint groaned, his face smooshed against Nat's shoulder as she threaded her fingers through his hair. 

"I have my suspicions," she admitted. "Convincing me will be up to him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been really rough - leave me a lovely review to cheer me up?
> 
> Love ya'll!


	5. Interlude I

Friday night, eleven o’clock, and the _Captain America_ gets called out right on cue. 

The key code was Stark’s and after what Clint had told them Steve was confident that it actually was him, not the friend he’d loaned the number too, but it didn't do anything to help his nerves. He stomach hadn’t been this jumpy since the very first time he’d danced, back when he was fresh out of the Army and still stumbling through the moves and routines Bucky and Clint had taught him. He was still a little off balance from last week’s mix-up, still confused by how hurt he’d been when he thought Tony had switched him out for _Ronin_ , and he wasn’t even sure he was ready to see the man yet. He could’ve refused to go – Fury’s system allowed for that, especially since Tony had already broken the rules – but he’d promised Clint that he’d get after the genius for what he’d done, and there was a small, shameful part of him that _was_ angry. A part that wanted… something; consequences maybe, or commitment, or… just something. 

So he would go. 

While Bruce fired the pizza, Steve went to the changing rooms, put on the flag-patterned briefs that Tony used to tease him for underneath dark wash jeans and a white t-shirt, a red-checkered flannel. Parting his hair a little more sharply than he normally did, he made a face at himself in the wide bank of mirrors, wondered what it was that a man like Tony Stark got out of looking at shy, All-American boy Steve. Sure, he had a great body – years in the Army and some experimental medicine in his younger days had seen to that – but attractive people weren’t exactly hard for a billionaire playboy genius to come by. It didn’t seem like it was just the stripping either – again, something easy for a man like Stark to acquire. He… he talked sometimes, the way Steve thought he might talk to his friends if he had any, and sometimes it seemed like all he really wanted was to cuddle quietly, but he then he would grin wickedly and snap the elastic of Steve’s underwear or smack him on the ass and make a lewd proposition, ruining the moment and throwing them back into the role of dancer and client like nothing else had happened. 

To be fair, nothing really did. 

He never said anything, never asked, never mentioned the more-than-professional intimacy they skirted around. 

They weren’t friends. 

They certainly weren’t _boyfriends_. 

Maybe it wasn’t fair of Steve to demand anything more than what he had. 

But he was perfectly in his rights to make Tony face the consequences of breaking pizza rules, and that was exactly what he planned to do. 

If he maybe went fishing for some solid answers in the process, well that was between him and his god. 

Slipping into his old brown bomber jacket, he checked his pockets to make sure he had everything he needed and headed back out to the kitchen to grab the pizza. Bruce was just slipping the box into a warming bag when he emerged, and handed it off with a small, sad sort of smile that was probably meant to be encouraging before going back to his ovens. The look Bucky shot him from across the counter was more sympathetic, though it didn’t make him feel any better. 

“Give him hell punk,” the man grinned, his teeth sharp and white. “Have some fun with it.” 

“Right,” Steve replied, forcing a grin of his own. 

That’s what this should be, what it was supposed to be. Fun. That was why he’d joined up with Pizza Grams in the first place, just to have some fun and take his mind off his nightmares. The fact that the tips more than paid for his art classes, or that he’d found a family with Bucky and the rest of them – well that was just a bonus. He’d come to like the dancing, dancing for Tony especially, and heading out to scold him should just be another enjoyable evening with no strings attached, but as Steve climbed into one of the delivery cars and pulled out into traffic, it felt a lot heavier than that. 

Concentrating on the drive, he tried to shrug the feeling off before he made it to the Tower, but he didn’t manage it. 

The apartment number was included in the ‘notes’ section of the receipt, right underneath the number that validated his parking in the underground garage. Tony hadn’t ever met him in the same apartment more than once, instead sending him on a treasure hunt through the hallways every time he delivered. Never had he called Steve up to his own apartment, the top-floor penthouse that everyone knew was the private New York home of the world’s leading inventor in weapons tech. Steve had never really thought about what that meant before, never puzzled over the mechanics of it until tonight. It had to be a hassle, finding a different set of empty rooms any time he called for pizza, at least every other week if not more often. 

Made him wonder if Tony Stark would be _ashamed_ of being caught with him. With as much of a reputation as he had for partying and bedding pretty young men and women left and right, that kind of behavior had nearly disappeared in the last few years, ever since the man had been abducted and then retrieved from a terrorist cell in Afghanistan. But that was something that Tony didn’t like to talk about, that and the glowing blue power cell in his chest that Steve had only ever seen through the thin, worn fabric of ragged t-shirts. 

It didn’t matter. 

If Tony wanted to meet him in… apartment 364B, then that was where Steve would meet him. 

The man _was_ paying for the convenience after all. 

Knocking firmly on the door, he took a step back and waited, counted three beats in his head before it swung open and revealed a grinning Tony Stark on the other side. 

“Hey Cap,” he greeted, genuine pleasure in his voice. “Come on in.” 

Then there was that too. 

Way to go Rogers – get a crush on a guy who doesn’t even know your real name. 

“Mr. Stark,” he nodded, stepping into the apartment and crossing to the small dinette table to put down the pizza box. The place settings looked staged, the open living room decorated with generic furniture and wall hangings, and maybe that’s what it was, just empty apartments waiting around for someone to move in. 

It all struck Steve as rather sad all of a sudden, rather lonely. 

The impression didn’t last. 

“Missed you,” Tony mumbled, mouth pressed against Steve’s back between his shoulder blades as he slipped in close, brought their bodies flush together and curled his hands lightly around Steve’s hips. “It’s been… it’s been a long week. Need to relax.” 

Steve felt his heart sink a little. 

Tony had always been a basket of mixed signals, but tonight it cut, knowing that on the one hand he’d been missed, that Tony was happy to see him, but on the other hand he was just stress relief, worth an order at the end of a tough week but not enough for Tony to walk down to the stupid shop and ask for his number. 

Crap. 

That’s not what this was about – he wasn’t a jilted lover. 

He needed to get his head in the game. 

“Gonna dance for me Cap?” Tony asked, letting him go so that Steve could turn around and face him, face the teasing grin on his face. “Gonna help me relax?” 

“Thought maybe we could try something different tonight,” Steve said shyly, ducking his head and looking up at Tony through his lashes, affecting his character. “If you want…” 

Tony’s eyes sparked and his grin shifted, less snark and more curious, more excited. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, staring at him like he was trying to figure Steve out, to figure look right through him. “Yeah we can do that.” 

Jerking his chin, Steve gestured toward the couch. 

“Sit down?” 

Tony didn’t respond, just smiled a smile that was too soft on his face and moved into the living room, sat down in the middle of the couch and leaned back. He looked comfortable there, slouched in sweats and a worn MIT shirt, clothes Steve was sure no one else ever got to see. Maybe the famous Pepper Potts, but no one else. Wishing he knew what it meant that he got to see Tony like this, he circled around behind the couch silently until he was standing over the man, putting his hands lightly on his shoulders until Tony tipped his head back and smiled at Steve upside down. He couldn’t help kissing him then, just a slow, chaste press of lips that he had to fight to keep casual, at least until Tony’s hands came up to thread through his hair and pull him closer, mouth curving against his. 

Taking Tony’s wrists in his hands, he brought them down to his sides, pressed them against his knees before dragging his hands slowly up Tony’s thighs. 

“Stay,” he murmured, mouth still pressed against the other man’s; then he straightened up and pulled a long strip of thin black fabric from his jacket pocket, let it unfurl. 

It wasn’t a part of his act – he’d had to steal it from Natasha’s locker – but if she noticed its absence before he managed to return it he didn’t think she would mind much. Stretching it between his hands, he lifted it slightly, arched an eyebrow in question, but Tony just grinned that grin and nodded. 

“Kinky,” he hummed as Steve laid the fabric carefully over his eyes, tied it in a loose knot behind his head. “Didn’t know you had it in you Cap.” 

Steve didn’t reply, just moved back around to the front of the couch, careful to make enough noise for Tony to track his movements. There was a laptop open on the coffee table, nearby but pushed out of the way, waiting for him to plug in the flash drive that has also been in his pocket. As the music started up, half blues and half soft rock and entirely familiar, Steve unzipped his jacket and tossed it onto the couch by Tony’s side, watched as the man reached out a hand to feel the butter-soft leather. He knew that jacket, knew the song, knew the dance that Steve had done for him dozens of times by now, but he was clearly expecting something more, because as Steve began to dance, began to strip out of his clothes, confusion slowly started to creep across his face. 

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously, audible above the music but still quiet, still intimate. 

“I’m dancing for you Mr. Stark,” Steve murmured, not even missing a beat. 

"I told you to call me Tony," he frowned, the confusion now clear in his voice. There might have even been a little hurt there, at the use of his last name, at the fact that Steve was out of sight and out of reach. "I don't..." 

But the music climbed, got faster, and Steve slunk forward, his chest tight as he shoved his jeans down and stepped out of them. Sliding onto Tony's lap he straddled the man's thighs, grabbed his wrists when they immediately came up to touch. They'd done this lots of times so it was allowed by now, and lord knew that Tony did a lot of touching, but not this time. 

"No," he said, pressing the man's hands back down to the couch, surprised when they stayed there. "Club rules," he added, keeping his tone flat and firm so it didn't come across as some kind of virginal role-play. "No touching." 

Tony's breath caught between his teeth but he stayed still, didn't move as the music continued to play and Steve rocked his hips in Tony's lap. Running his hands up Tony's sides, across his chest, he took a minute to be selfish, to enjoy the caress, the warm, broad planes of muscle beneath his shirt, careful not to touch the mechanism that glowed over his heart. He was surprised to find Tony's chest heaving a little, his breathing deep and irregular, and for a minute Steve panicked, afraid that the blindfold had thrown him into a flashback, but one look at his face said that Tony was annoyed, not afraid. 

"You're punishing me," he concluded, mouth twisted like he'd finally solved the puzzle and didn't like the picture. 

Leaning forward, Steve pressed their cheeks together, murmured in his ear. 

"I think maybe you deserve it Mr. Stark." 

Tony huffed, pulled back like he meant to meet Steve's gaze, but didn't move to take off the blindfold, didn't lift his hands. 

"Aw come on," he complained, but his voice was shaky and ruined the effect, his breath hitching as Steve ran one hand down his chest and curled the other around the nape of his neck, pulling him close as he swiveled his hips. "Phil's a good guy – I trust him. He's just been... mmm, having a tough time lately. Was just trying to... oh, _yeah_ , just trying to help out a friend. You really gonna blame me for that Cap?"

This time Steve's heart dropped right through the bottom of his stomach. 

Frozen in place, hands braced against the back of the couch, Steve stared down at Tony with eyes that suddenly burned, hot and stinging as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs. 

Well there was his answer, wasn't it? 

Tony wasn't even thinking about what it meant to Steve, what Steve might've felt thinking that Tony had called another stri... 

Stripper. 

' _Idiot_ ,' he cursed at himself, ' _What did you expect_?' 

Of course that was all Tony had been thinking – that was all this was - just stripping and lap dancing and winding each other up knowing that it wasn't going to go anywhere, _couldn't_ go anywhere. 

Steve was the one who'd made it out to be more, wanted it to be more. 

But... 

"If that's really what you think this is about Mr. Stark," he said, quiet and too rough as the music finally trailed off, "Then I think it's better if I go." 

Climbing off Tony's lap, Steve jerked his jeans back on and stepped into his shoes before the words had even sunk in, gotten his t-shirt over his head before Tony had even gotten the blindfold ripped off. 

"Hey, what..." he began, getting up off the couch, but Steve shrugged, slipped on his jacket. 

One good thing about being a stripper – you learned how to get in and out of your clothes fast and efficiently. 

"Dance is over," he said simply, grabbing his thumb drive and shoving it into his pocket. "Time's up." 

"Cap..." 

"Have a good night Mr. Stark," he interrupted, stepping past Tony and moving toward the door. "Enjoy the pizza." 

And then he was gone, running away from something he hadn't even known he wanted to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> **I know, 2 at once?! Crazy!!**  
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> **How did you guys like Steve and Tony? Aren't they just a mess?**  
> 


	6. Initiative

Over the next week and a half Phil Coulson did just that, surprising, shocking, and impressing the Black Widow by turns. No easy feat for any man except her husband, who got a little jealous but managed to keep it behind the bedroom door, and was therefore permitted his silliness and minor insecurities. For his part James mostly laughed it off, was open with his awe and praise where it was deserved, and eventually fell into line with the competent and comprehensive orders made by the senior agent without hesitation. Always the good little soldier – that was her James – but Natasha could see it too, understood. 

He was impressive in his self-containment, his control, his mind and his strategy, and not least of all in his ability to guide and redirect the scattered genius that was Tony Stark. The man actually groveled to Phil Coulson, treated him with the respect of an equal, something that Natasha had never thought she would see. 

And together... 

Well. 

Thus far it was just an idea. 

A dream. 

A remarkable one, yes, but still just a concept, an idealized world dreamed up by Tony Stark in which spies and self-made superheroes took it upon themselves to make the world a better place. 

The _Initiative_. 

It had been enough to stun both the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier into silence, stillness, at least for a moment. Who would have guessed that Stark felt so much responsibility, so much compassion for his fellow man? Who would have thought that he would go so far as to make himself a martyr, a force of good in the world at the expense of his own safety, his health? 

Who would have thought that he would seek out James Buchannon Barnes and Natasha Romanov to help? 

They'd suspected things of Tony Stark for a long time, the two of them. In the end they'd decided that if the rumors _were_ true, if he'd come up with something so amazing, so impossible as the arc reactor, that he deserved to keep the thing if it was all that was keeping him alive. They hadn't thought they'd ever see it, experience the story, the truth of it. They certainly hadn't expected Stark to call them down to his lab that morning, to swallow nervously and look to Phil Coulson for reassurance before stripping off. 

It was a good beginning anyway. 

Caught their attention to say the least. 

They'd listened with narrow-eyed awe as Stark had explained the thing, the trust he was exhibiting, the seriousness of it all hardly lost on the two spies. He'd told them what it did to keep his heart beating, what it _could_ do to save the world, and then he'd shown them a suit of steel and red and gold and Phil had taken over, led them to a conference table and given them file folders, paperwork, non-disclosure agreements and the rough drafts of a contract. He'd pulled up a computer projection courtesy of Stark's omniscient AI, showed them statistics, redacted missions statements, information he shouldn't have where a team like the one Stark was proposing could do some real good, and then he'd let them go. 

Sent them home, with enough food for thought to keep them fat and happy for a good while. 

James was excited, eager, interested in trying it out just for the lark of it. 

Natasha was more skeptical. 

This could go wrong, terribly wrong, but she was willing to consider it for three reasons. 

One - the team would not be government run or sanctioned. Where this would normally be a risk, a reason to back away, Natasha was comfortable working outside the law, and appreciated the ability to make her own calls. 

Two – she wanted it. Needed it. Like Clint, she and James still ran around playing at spies every once in a while, keeping their skills sharp and pockets padded, their names in circulation, but it wasn't enough. She pizza-stripped because it was fun, because she enjoyed it, because it was a way to relax and kept her close to her friends, the people who had, despite her best efforts, become her family, but sometimes she still got an itch that no part of PizzaGrams could scratch. 

Three – and this one was possibly the most compelling thus far, the team would be led by Phillip J Coulson himself. She didn't know why that seemed so important at the moment, but her intuition told her that he was the key to getting this thing up and running, to making it work. With him heading the comms, she suspected that she and James might actually be able to work with Tony Stark. 

At least without _completely_ murdering each other. 

"What are you thinking, моя любовь?" James murmured, stepping in close behind her as she stood at the shop computer and hooking his chin over her shoulder. "You don't like this _initiative_?" 

"And you do," she said by way of avoiding an answer. 

James hummed in her ear, pressed a kiss to her cheek before backing off. In a move he'd learned from Clint he levered himself up onto the counter beside her, swung his heavy boots like a child. 

"I do," he said, watching her run a quick assessment of the online ordering system. "We both have red in our ledger beautiful – this may be our opportunity to clear it." 

"And you are willing to team up with Tony Stark to do this?" she asked, the corners of her mouth curving in a smile. 

The red was her issue - she and James both knew that. They also both knew that he would do whatever he had to do in order to keep her happy, whether that meant joining Tony Stark's Initiative or not. He was perfect, tried to be perfect for her, and the truth and effort of that touched her heart sometimes. 

"Stark isn't so bad as he used to be," James shrugged, hopping down off the counter and walking toward the sinks to start scrubbing up. "Coulson does well with him. He is a good man." 

"Who's a good man?" 

Rolling her eyes, Natasha suppressed a smirk of exasperated amusement. Clint knew damn good and well who they'd been talking about – he'd walked in the back door just in time to catch the tail end of the conversation, Coulson's name, even with his bad ears. He'd been fishing for information and opinions ever since the three of them had discussed the man's new position as the head of Stark Security, the mysterious initiative he had proposed, and the archer wasn't nearly as subtle as he thought he was. 

He made a far better mercenary than he did a spy - it was almost pathetic. 

Understandable though. 

He was confused, didn't understand his own interest, his curiosity and his preoccupation, and it would almost be rather amusing if it weren't so sad. 

But Clint saw better from a distance, and so perhaps he truly didn't understand. 

Natasha did. 

Clint had hangups, insecurities and a healthy dose of paranoid mistrust, all of them well and truly earned, but he also had daddy issues and a kink for smooth, kind, older men, the terribly average ones who would have a difficult time hurting him. He still got his kicks flirting with pretty girls and bad boys, but what he really wanted, so obviously craved, was simple, honest affection, quiet stability. She could see the possibility of that in Phil Coulson, understood why Clint seemed so smitten in spite of himself, but unlike the other men Clint had tried and failed to satisfy himself with, there was more to this one. 

There was a masterful, calm-under-pressure badass hidden beneath Phil Coulson's expensive, fancy suits, what Clint had really deserved all along. 

It made sense that the archer was so stuck on the man after one short meeting, why he was so stubbornly refusing to admit that maybe they'd just gotten off on the wrong foot and there was the potential there for more. 

The only thing she wasn't sure about was how directly involved she wanted to get. 

It was clear that someone needed to be – Clint would never get over himself and take a chance on something his wanted on his own, not without a firm but loving shove in the right direction anyway. She could do it, step in and provide the push he needed, but he was sensitive about these things, got pissy. It would take a delicate hand, careful thought... 

Or maybe just a pizza. 

Even without the signature at the bottom she would have recognized the address. She'd been the one to take the order last time, to send Ronin out to answer the call of Stark's keycode with a feeling of anticipated disappointment sitting heavy in the pit of her stomach. There was no code this time, just an order for a medium pizza, no toppings, no sides, a familiar address, and the name P. Coulson at the bottom of the receipt. 

Interesting. 

Even without the back-door frequent-flyer number that would get them a stripper, those who ordered from PizzaGrams knew to request a specific song or delivery-dancer through their online app – Coulson had left the comment section completely blank. 

She wondered if it was a lack of bravery or a surplus of sense that had stopped the man from asking Ronin to deliver. 

"Clint!" she called, making the blonde and her beloved husband jump. "Come here, little bird, we have an order in." 

"Five or Seven?" he asked, snitching a piece of sweet dough from the ball Bruce was kneading and wandering across the shop floor towards her. 

"Neither," she replied, tapping at the screen. "Plain cheese for delivery at 2634 Stark Tower." 

"Aw Tash, I don't wanna sing," he whined, affecting a pout. "Send one of the kiddies to do it." 

"They're all busy," she lied, tearing off the receipt tape and slapping it against Clint's chest. "And besides, I think you'll want to take this one."

**AVAVA**

He debated for over an hour.

Considered all the reasons it was a bad idea. 

Just off the top of his head he could come up with five, but damn it, it had been one hell of a long week. 

He deserved this. 

Still, it took a lot more courage than ordering pizza should. 

In the end he chickened out too, which was just pathetic and which he refused to admit to, even to himself. Instead of calling in he ordered through the internet as he had done before, after downloading PizzaGrams' official app onto his StarkPhone and reading through the ordering instructions. Still shy of the stripper service that had found its way to his doorstep last time, he went one better than the advice Tony'd given him and ordered a plain cheese pizza, no toppings, no specials, no Ronin, thank you very much. 

Although... 

"Shit," Phil cursed under his breath, collapsing onto the couch in his now neatly arranged living room, scrubbing his hand though what little damp hair he had left before finger-combing it down again. 

A shower and a change of clothes had gone a long way toward making him feel human again, and the mug of rich, black caffeine steaming on the coffee table in front of him would likely finish the job. He was comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt, his bare feet, Supernanny was on the newly mounted flat screen, and now there was pizza on the way. 

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about it. 

Hadn't thought about punching in Stark's code, ordering up the # 5, and really unwinding with dinner and a nice little show. 

Contrary to the asinine impression he'd given previously, he had nothing against stripping or strippers, and he certainly had nothing against Ronin himself. The man had featured in Phil's idle thoughts several times in the last few weeks, when his mind wandered or while he slept. The hell of the whole thing was that he actually ticked a lot of Phil's boxes – pretty but strongly masculine, mature, broad across the chest with powerful shoulders and gorgeous arms. He moved with confidence but without the smug cockiness of a muscle-headed jock, seemed a little dangerous and oddly a little vulnerable at the same time, and... 

And this was ridiculous. 

He'd spent less than fifteen minutes in the man's company – he didn't know anything at all about him! 

Lust was fine; it was a natural human reaction and the man had been curled up in Phil's lap after all. He'd gotten a quick feel of powerful thighs, of a thick chest banded with muscle, and of course he would react to that. 

Fine, all well and good, but it was time to get a grip. 

He certainly wasn't going to let a pretty face distract him like this, and it wasn't likely he'd ever see Ronin again anyway, not unless he took some initiative. 

He hadn't been able to convince himself to request the stripper's presence sans stripping, and he wasn't sure what he would've said to the man if he had. 

He liked to think he would've just apologized, something a little smoother and less offensive than the last time. 

Correct his first impression a bit. 

Frowning to himself, Phil was reminded of Barnes' strange and unwarranted reaction in his office during their first meeting, the mistaken terms that led to his oddly defensive outburst about exotic dancers. He'd never figured out what that had been about, never asked – and honestly he wasn't sure he wanted to know – but the ugly accusation in the spy's tone had set Phil to thinking in what little quiet downtime he had, brought up feelings of shame and embarrassment. He had reacted poorly, he knew that, had upset and offended the man when he certainly hadn't meant to, and he wondered if he would ever have the chance to really apologize. 

He didn't think the tip he'd left on Stark's credit card really counted. 

Well, nevermind. It wouldn't be Ronin at his door and so for tonight it didn't matter. He was supposed to be relaxing, letting go of the low-grade anxiety he'd been holding on to ever since he and Tony had called the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier down to the labs that morning. The two spies had taken it well all things considered, asked intelligent questions and hid their reactions behind cool, calm, unreadable masks. Phil had sent them home for the remainder of the afternoon, certain that his revamped Stark Security team would survive without all four of them for the day. 

While he left the ex-KGB assassins to come to their own conclusions, he had spent a solid five hours talking Tony down off a proverbial (and actual) ledge. The genius had gone into a near panic, driven by flashbacks and anxiety, and hell if Phil didn't understand that. What he had, what he'd created, in both the suit and the arc reactor, would be well sought after by any government in the country, any black market dealer or underground organization. It had the potential to do as much harm as it did the good that its creator was hoping to see, and Tony had first hand knowledge of just what lengths those people were willing to go to get their hands on his tech. 

After Obadiah Stane had literally pried the reactor out of Tony's chest, a little panic was understandable. 

Still, it had been a humbling experience in itself, to realize both how powerless he was against the Iron Armor and just how much power he had to influence the man inside it. It had taken a lot of words, a lot of reassurances shouted into thin air from the rooftop of Stark Tower to get Tony to come back inside, but he'd managed it, managed to convince the man that flying off in the suit to hide in parts unknown wasn't the life he wanted to live. All in all they both considered themselves lucky that Tony (and Jarvis) had had the good sense to keep themselves close to the building, in the lee of the skyscraper where he was unlikely to be seen. There hadn't been any reports of strange aircraft in the area, so in the end they'd chalked it up to a victory and Phil had put Tony into Pepper Potts' more than capable hands. 

No doubt the genius had been treated to a good meal and a few sensible words that had the power to convince him to actually get a good night's sleep. 

Phil was actually hoping for much of the same himself. 

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of the first. 

Pulling it open destroyed all hope of the second.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yay - I missed this one! Stripper Pizza, omnomnom!!**
> 
> **Review me luvs <3 **
> 
> моя любовь = my love


	7. Second Impressions

Ok, what was it with this guy and looking completely edible and also completely cuddleable at the same time? 

Seriously, it wasn't fair. 

Free-balling it in grey sweats, wearing a t-shirt just tight enough to show off a nice chest and some great upper arms, and with the bare feet and the glasses and... and... 

And Clint was totally not staring. 

Nope. 

Definitely not. 

And he wasn't drooling either, so shut up. 

"It is you." 

It was said a little quietly, with a little surprise but no particular enthusiasm. The guy almost sounded nervous. Not too promising, not exactly what Clint had been hoping for, but he chased those thoughts away, told himself he hadn’t had any expectations at all when Natasha had handed him the receipt slip with a familiar name at the bottom. 

"Disappointed?" he asked, trying to keep his tone light, nothing like Ronin's dark growl. 

He only half succeeded – instead _he_ ended up sounding like the one who'd been let down somehow. 

Sorta felt that way. 

"That depends..." Coulson said warily, eyeing him up and down, and Clint's heart absolutely did not kick in his chest. "Are you going to sing at me?" 

For a second Clint just stared, then he was cracking a grin and laughing loud and honest and happy, and Coulson was backing up to let him step inside and he really shouldn't but he did anyway because even though they'd gotten off to a bad start Clint kind of maybe liked the guy? He shouldn't, didn't know why, but it was what it was and for some reason there was something about him that Clint really really _really_ wanted to try out. 

"Nah, thought I'd save you from the singing," he chuckled, glancing around the now fully-furnished apartment, no cardboard boxes in sight. "And no dancing this time either. One cheese pizza, as ordered. No specials for you Coulson!" 

The man blinked at him, stood still for a minute even as Clint presented the pizza box with an exaggerated flourish, but then the crests of his cheekbones were turning a little pink and did he just give Clint a nice, slow once-over? 

"Um, no I know," he said, clearing his throat, and Clint tilted his head a little, suddenly struck by just how many mixed signals he was getting here. "I just... wanted to apologize again for how I reacted last time. Didn't think I'd get the chance." 

Oh. 

So that was it. 

"Hey, don't worry about it," Clint said with a shrug, biting down on his own strange and sudden disappointment and moving to put the pizza box down on the counter since apparently the guy wasn't going to take it from him. "I mean, I came on a little strong right?" 

Turning around, Clint just caught the guy's mouth turning up in a smile, one that went all the way to his eyes, bright with silent laughter and wow, that was nice. 

"Yes, you... caught me a little off guard," he admitted. "Still, I reacted poorly, even if I didn't mean to offend you." 

"No biggie," he replied, brushing off the seriousness of the apology, suddenly wanting desperately to get back to the light-heartedness of just a second ago. "I'm a high school dropout who was raised in the circus and I make money by taking my clothes off. That was far from the worst thing that's ever been said about me." 

"That doesn't mean you... wait, the circus? Really?" 

"Really really," Clint said with a wink, pleased that the guy seemed more happily curious than anything. "Anyway, comes in handy – you wouldn't _believe_ how flexible I am." 

Whoops. 

Ok, so maybe that slipped out, and maybe it wasn't exactly something appropriate for your regular pizza delivery boy to say but Coulson looked like maybe the comment had broken his brain instead of offended him? And that was kinda nice, since, you know, last time it seemed like he was either straight or religious or just not into the whole 'paying for it' thing. This looked a little more like maybe he was into it? 

Shit, ok, time to go, before he did something pathetic like whimper or lick his lips. 

Seemed like a good note to leave on anyway, while Coulson was picking his jaw up off the floor. 

"So um, enjoy the pizza yeah?" Clint said a little awkwardly, suddenly off balance by the show of interest, and the man blinked, refocused, definitely did _not_ cruise him a second time. 

Yup, he needed to get out of here. 

Offering a tight, nervous sort of smile, Clint reached for the door and pulled it open, paused as he moved to step back out into the hallway. 

"Hey, so, I'm glad you called," he said over his shoulder, and Coulson huffed a self-deprecating little laugh. 

"First impression better the second time around?" he asked, one eyebrow arched and a wry grin on his face, like he was expecting a certain answer. 

"Wasn't so bad the first time," Clint replied, remembering his first, gut-punch reaction to him, to _Phil_. "But... yeah." 

Satisfied with the look of soft surprise on the man's face, he stepped out of the apartment and threw up a silly little wave. 

"Have a good night." 

And then he ran. 

Well, kind of – he managed to keep it to a sort of hasty power-walk – but the sentiment was there. 

It _felt_ like running. 

By the time he got down to visitor parking and slid into the driver's seat of one of Pizzagrams' delivery trucks, his heart was banging against his ribs like a snare drum. 

' _Calm down Barton_ ,' he scolded, catching sight of the stupid, doofy grin threatening on his face in the rearview mirror. ' _Get your shit together. You don't even know the guy_.' 

' _Yet_ ,' his brain smirked, damn traitor, but he couldn't help it. 

His head was in a total whirlwind, and it was stupid but it made a weird kind of sense, because the whole thing had lasted like, what? Five minutes? It had happened so fast and so smooth and so easy it was like almost they'd never had that first, awkward encounter, where he'd left angry and a little too personally miffed by the guy's reaction. 

Almost. 

Hard to completely forget him, and Clint had tried, but the man was hot like burning and Clint remembered straddling his lap and feeling his palms flat on his chest with far too much clarity to really let it go. 

Lust, that was all it was, and that was normal right? 

He was fine with that. 

But now he'd come back and seen the guy again and he wasn't any less attractive for it, hadn't lost any of that strange, intense allure that had been haunting Clint for days, and hell if it hadn't turned out that he was _nice_ too. 

At least, he seemed pretty nice. 

He'd apologized anyway, sincerely, hadn't sneered when Clint impulsively blurted out nearly all the shittiest parts of his life story, and that said a lot. 

As much as five minutes could say anyway. 

But that was probably ok too, because he _was_ just delivering pizza this time. 

Kinda wished he'd been called out as Hawkeye though... 

Frowning, Clint shook his head, buckled up and pulled out of the parking garage. 

That was a dangerous road to start wandering down. 

That was how he got himself into trouble. 

There was obvioulsy a lot more to Phil Coulson than what he was letting on, and it wasn't all that reassuring that Bucky and Natasha had come into PizzaGrams early that day, picking away at crummy little tasks normally reserved for the college kids and muttering to each other in Russian. 

They knew something, but so far they weren't sharing. 

Well, he'd squeeze it out of them if he had to - Bucky could always be bribed with fresh fruit, Natasha with pretty gold rings and pistachio gelato. 

He'd figure out this stupid crush if it killed him.

**AVAVA**

What... just happened?

Phil felt like a bit of an idiot standing there in the entryway, staring at the door, but his feet seemed to have stopped working. 

Hell, his _brain_ seemed to have stopped working. 

As much as he had wished it, Phil hadn't really had any hope that Ronin would be the one to deliver his pizza, not when he taken the precaution of making sure that was exactly what _wouldn't_ happen. He wasn't used to this, to being so... so wishy-washy, but as much as he'd wanted the opportunity to apologize again, maybe make himself seem like a little less of an ass, he hadn't been ready for another strip-tease. 

' _Liar_ ,' his brain whispered. 

A part of him would've liked that a hell of a lot, but Phil had never been one for casual sex, for unattached lust. Arousal always turned to want - for a relationship, for intimacy - and it was silly but for some reason he wanted to get to know this guy. 

So it was a plain cheese pizza and a little bit of unrealistic hope. 

But it hadn't gone terribly. 

The man was just as attractive as Phil remembered, even without the black and gold get-up. Worn blue jeans and a stone-grey, canvas flak jacket had fit him just as well, and maybe he hadn't gotten his hands on the guy's admittedly spectacular chest this time but he got a better look at his face. Without the hood and the collar Phil got to watch his expressions, trace the line of his jaw and see his cheeks pink, watch the way he ducked his head bashfully and rub the back of his neck. 

And those eyes, hell. 

Blue and grey and green – hazel, he thought – changing when he moved and sparking with a mischievousness that Phil hadn't expected. 

He'd thought the guy would be pissed, uncomfortable and standoffish at the very least, and maybe it _had_ been uncomfortable at first but it has slipped away so easily... He'd teased, laughed, _flirted_ even though he'd refused to dance, and Phil wondered if that meant it was a part of who _he_ was or just a remnant of Ronin hanging on. 

He wished he'd have asked for the guy's name before he beat feet for the door. 

Maybe it was on the receipt. 

Only there wasn't one that he could find, not clipped to the box or under it or on the floor where it may have fallen. For one brief moment he considered looking the guy up – it would be child's play to hack a pizzeria's security - but he was immediately shocked by the thought, disappointed in himself. 

Invasive didn't even begin to describe _that_ , illegal either. 

Well, it was only New York – surely he would run into the man somewhere or other. 

Grabbing the pizza off the counter, Phil selected two bottles of beer from the fridge and made his way to the couch, flopping onto the cushions and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table before flicking the lid off the box. He didn't catch it immediately, too busy cracking the lid off his lager and cueing up his Tivo, but as he turned to reach for the first slice he caught sight of the numbers printed on the underside of the cardboard, thick black ink in a neat, curving script. 

There was something familiar about it, both the writing itself and the line of symbols, four numbers, two letters, and then another three – **8867PC463**. 

It reminded him of... 

Of Tony Stark's specials code – **1425TS463**. 

Apparently somebody'd slipped him one of his own.

**AVAVA**

"And what is this look for?" Natasha asked as Clint came waltzing back into the shop, dopey grin still stuck on his face. The words were too sweet, too sharp, too knowing, but Clint was halfway to Cloud 9 and couldn't summon up the urge to give a damn.

"You were right," he grinned, sweeping in to plant a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. 

"Of course. What about this time?" 

"Coulson. He's definitely one of the good ones." 

"Is that right?" 

"Yup. Totally. Super sweet, stumbled all over himself to apologize..." 

"Stumbled? Coulson?" Bucky snorted, coming up behind him with a clipboard in his hands, chill clinging to his jacket from where he'd obviously been taking inventory in the walk-ins. "Hell Barton, what'd you do to the guy? He's Mr. Smooth and Untouchable at work." 

Clint frowned, his spirits falling. 

Smooth, yeah, that sounded great. 

Untouchable not so much. 

"He must like you," Natasha purred, bumping him with her hip as she passed. "What did he say?" 

"Not a lot," he admitted, "But he was trying, you know? He seems... nice. Right? He's nice?" 

"Mm, yes, very nice," she agreed, and across the counter her husband choked a laugh, making Clint glare. 

"Really love, nice?" he asked. "That's the word you're going with?" 

Natasha cocked an eyebrow, sighed, but from where he stood it was easy for Clint to see the little show they were putting on, and mostly for his benefit. 

"Yes _nice_ ," she insisted, planting her hands on her hips. "Intelligent. Smart, but clever too. He is a good strategist, a good leader, but he does not make you resent him for it." 

"How so?" Clint asked, frowning again. He remembered structure, hierarchy from his brief Army days, and he couldn't quite picture what she was trying to get across. That kind of boss, that kind of supervising officer had always been impossible for him to get along with, to respect. They'd all just looked at him as the high school drop-out, the idiot loud-mouthed jerk-off who talked too much and questioned orders too often. 

"He doesn't think too much of himself," Bucky explained. "Willing to admit when he's wrong, take advice, listen to opinions. He re-wrote an entire security plan when me and Natalia brought new information to the table. Wasn't quietly pissy about it either." 

"He's the type that will not send you into a situation blind," the redhead added. "You know he'll be there on the other end of the comms if you need his help." 

Clint watched her tilt her head, her eyes far away before she blinked and shared a significant look with Bucky. It was high praised coming from the Widow, even he knew that, but there was something more to it that he couldn't quite put his finger on. 

"He will not send his soldiers out where he would not lead himself," she said, and _that_ Clint got. 

Seemed too good to be real, but... 

Shrugging, Nat shook it off (whatever _it_ was). 

"Well, we will see. Coulson is putting together an elite security team; James and myself, Stark... We begin training tomorrow morning; a three mile run downtown. I would not expect Coulson to sit it out." 

Elite security team huh? 

That might be something to see.


	8. Run About

So, Clint's not a morning person. 

At least, not before he gets a full pot of coffee in him. 

Even then it's touch and go – he's not nasty the way Stark can get, but he's quiet and foggy and doesn't react when people talk to him. It's like he can't fully absorb the world before the caffeine kicks in, and for a mercenary, it's not exactly a good trait. 

Well, ex-mercenary... he's mostly just a stripper now. 

_Exotic dancer._

Whatever. 

He takes his clothes off for a living. 

Which he's totally ok with. It's fun, the money's fantastic, and hey, he's pretty good at it. He enjoys the attention, he enjoys the art of it - and yeah, what he does? Art. It's physical, demanding, _gratifying_ because he likes knowing he can make people look, and he gets to put all his old acrobatics training to good use. Plus, working afternoons and early evenings at Cecily's and nights with Pizzagrams means that he still had plenty of time to practice his archery and bonus! - he gets to sleep in and avoid the wretched sunrise. 

Kinda explains why no one was more surprised than him when he bounced out of bed the next morning ready to go. He caught himself grinning when he popped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and run damp fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the weird, lop-sided look he had going on but he couldn't convince himself to stop. Seemed silly, to be this excited when a week ago he was pissed and mopey, when he still didn't really know the guy all that well, but hey, there it was. 

Besides, the guy pretty much had the Black Widow's respect and admiration in the bag already – that said far more than any of the tinglies Clint was feeling. 

Dragging on a pair of sweats he contemplated going shirtless but a peek out the window suggested rain, so he grabbed a gym shirt he'd cut the sleeves and sides out of before gulping down half a pot of coffee and ducking out the door. It wasn't hard to guess where he needed to go – Nat had said three miles, starting point was Stark Tower, and because Stark would actually be with them, security would have to follow. There was only one route that made that easy, and if you took the time they left, factored in Stark being fifteen to twenty minutes late, the average fit adult's standard jog time... 

What? 

He may not have gone to traditional public school, but he knows math, ok? 

You think shooting arrows doesn't involve some serious calculations? 

Mass, velocity, angles, wind resistance... 

Anyway, he knows where to find them. 

There's a park about a mile in, two-thirds of the way through their run. Clint's there ahead of them, planned it that way by angling past the fountain. He's leaning against a tree with his arms crossed when Bucky and Natasha come into view, running in perfect tandem. Bucky snorts as soon as they're close enough for Clint to hear and Nat quirks an eyebrow but they both slow down, enough that Coulson blows by them from where he's been jogging steadily, tracking Stark's progress. His eyes go wide when he catches sight of Clint and he nearly stumbles, his pace faltering, but he quickly recovers, abruptly facing front and increasing his pace. 

Smirking, Clint peels himself off the tree and slips in between Nat and Bucky, falling into an easy pace to match them. Ahead of them Coulson is trotting along determinedly, refusing to look back, but Clint's pretty sure the tips of his ears are red. He can't be sure – he's a little distracted after all. 

The man's got a fantastic ass. 

He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt, another Army Rangers logo printed across his broad shoulders, and a silky pair of basketball shorts that leave little to the imagination. Clint's not drooling, he swears, but Bucky only lasts about a minute and a half before he's had enough. Scoffing, he hits the gas and goes blitzing by, leaving them all in the dust. 

Lazy bastard. 

He'll probably snag a cab as soon as he's out of sight of his wife. 

"Well?" Natasha demands another minute later, and she's teasing him, he knows she is, so he teases right back. 

"Ten ten, would recommend," he grins wolfishly, waggling his eyebrows as he stares pointedly at the near indecent display before them. 

"Careful little bird," she warned in Russian, so quiet he almost missed it under the steady pound of their sneakers and Stark's creative curses floating over their shoulders. "I may like this Coulson, but I do not want to see you hurt." 

Clint's face fell, his good mood dimming for the first time all morning. 

"Relax Tash," he sighed, avoiding her eyes. "It's just flirting, and I flirt with everybody, right? Not like he's actually interested." 

Nat rolled her eyes, delicately of course, and then she's sending him a challenging look, an _'I dare you,'_ and takes off after her husband. Coulson's shoulders visibly relax when she passes him alone, and Clint smirks, bites down a laugh. Taking one last look at the view before him, Clint puts on the steam and passes close enough that the man's sweatshirt brushes his bare arm. 

"On your left!" he calls winking when the man startles and turns to look at him with shocked blue eyes, and then he's taking off after Natasha. 

Coulson's not the only one with a fantastic ass, and it only seems fair to give him a chance to ogle right back. 

Less than half a mile from the end of their run, a couple blocks away from the Tower, the rumbly grey clouds overhead break open with a cataclysmic thunderclap and it begins to pour, coming down so hard that Clint's soaked in seconds. Natasha's half a block ahead of him but he still hears her shriek, and then she's really hauling ass, the blood red soles of her running shoes flashing at him as she tries to dodge through the raindrops. 

Clint chuckles and picks up the pace himself – he may not hate getting his hair wet quite as much as she does but damn if it's not a little chilly. Should'a brought his own hoodie, but he may have wanted to show off his arms a little... 

They were one of his many good features after all. 

As the entrance to Stark Tower comes into view Clint grins and shakes his head – that stupid smile's back but they'll all survive it. 

Well, maybe not Bucky, if the face he's pulling is anything to go by. 

"Sourpuss," Clint accuses as he skids to a splashy stop in front of them. "You look like grumpy cat." 

The man's leaning against the wall near the glass doors looking suspiciously dry as Natasha wrings out her ponytail beside him. She looks a little bit like a drowned, bedraggled fox pelt and he has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, focuses instead on his cool-down. 

He's learned the value of stretching, ok? 

Lifting his foot, he grabs hold of his ankle and tugs it up to his hip before switching to do the other, bending at the waist to execute a few loose windmills. 

Yeah, yeah, he's wagging his tail, so what? 

He contemplates dropping into a split, showing off with a handstand but it seems a little much and anyway, Coulson's popping up beside him before he can decide. Treating Clint to a nervous side-eye, he shifted slightly to the left and away, positioning himself closer to Nat and Bucky than to Clint. 

"Phillip Coulson, Clint Barton," Natasha said, and if Clint didn't know her as well as he did he'd think it was a regular introduction between two people. 

Luckily he did know her that well. 

Coulson, _Phil_ , frowned, flicked her a dry look. 

"Our mutual acquaintance?" he asked skeptically, then turned to face Clint full on for the first time. "We've met." 

He leaves it at that, which Clint supposes is nice, since the guy doesn't know that Nat and Bucky strip too. Pretty decent of the man not to out him. He's holding out a hand though so Clint takes it, likes the firm, causal shake, the trigger calluses that catch on his own, remembers the fleeting pressure of those hands on his chest. 

"Mr. Barton," he says, and Clint quirks an eyebrow before taking it for what it is, a second (ok, third) impression, more formal and less awkward than the others, the option of a relationship that's more professional, distanced from Clint's job. 

"Just Clint," he replies, and the guy looks so sweetly surprised, cheeks pinking up as his hair drips water down his neck that Clint can't help but tease him just a little, toss him a wink. "Nice to see you again boss." 

"Boss?" Stark huffs between pants, finally trotting up to the group from where he'd fallen behind, shaking the water from his hair like a dog and earning a snarl from Natasha as he splattered her with fine droplets. "You finally gonna come work for me Birdbrain?" 

Clint barks a laugh. 

"In your dreams Stark." 

"So you just dropped in to see me? Be still my heart, I didn't know you cared!" 

Clint rolls his eyes, shoves the genius off where he's draped himself over Clint's shoulder. 

"I was in the area," he drawls, leaning back against the wall beside Bucky and crossing his arms over his chest. 

He catches Phil staring, trailing his gaze slowly over his shoulders, his biceps, his chest where his t-shirt is plastered to every dip and curve before he blinks and swallows, snaps himself back into professional mode. 

"We all made good time in any case," he said with a shrug, peeling up the cuff of his hoodie and checking the watch underneath. "And Stark didn't short circuit." 

"Oh hah hah," Tony huffed, still catching his breath as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and wiped off the screen with his damp sleeve. "Disappointed Agent?" 

"Only with your sense of style and facial hair," Coulson deadpanned, and Clint barked a laugh, surprising them all. 

Awww. 

He was _funny_. 

Stark shot him a comically hurt look but Clint ignored him, more interested in Coulson. The man frowned, hands on hips, right middle finger tapping as he eyed the sky, the deluge that hadn't let up while they stood under the protective arch of the Tower doors. 

"Is the training gym up and running?" he asks, still watching the clouds, and behind him Stark grinned darkly. 

"Agent you've never _seen_ an obstacle course like mine," he promised. 

Phil scoffs in his throat and Clint has to agree, because _hello_? The man's an _Army Ranger_? 

Then again, Clint's seen some of the shit that Stark can pull out of a computer. Could be fun... 

He wouldn't mind a run at that himself. 

"You coming Legolas?" Tony asked, and Clint blinked, found the genius holding open the glass door and Phil already inside the lobby, waiting with a cautious sort of interest on his face. 

He wanted to. 

Damn did he want to. 

He'd love to see Phil Coulson dominate a high-tech obstacle course, and very suddenly he was quite sure that that was exactly what the man would do. But that way led temptation, temptation he didn't need, and not only in the form of one sexy ex Army Ranger. 

"Nah man," he said, shaking his head and rolling his shoulders to push himself upright. "Got an early shift, and I need to get in some range time first." 

Bumping fists with Bucky, he pressed a quick kiss to Nat's cheek before spinning on his heel, snapping Phil a quick, flirtatious salute, and jogging back out into the rain.

**AVAVA**

Phil hammers through Stark's computerized, holographic obstacle course with a vengeance, obliterating the completion times projected by his AI and the real times obtained by both Barnes and Romanov. By the time he reaches the end he's dripping with sweat, despite the fact that he'd peeled off his sweatshirt and rung out most of the rainwater waiting for his turn, red in the face and breathing hard.

Well at least this time he has a good excuse. 

He's never felt so wrong-footed with someone the way he feels with Clint. 

_Clint_. 

Fuck, of course the Black Widow and Winter Soldier knew him. 

Why wouldn't they? 

Why wouldn't some freak coincidence make his life ten times harder (pun absolutely intended), personal and professional clashing in one horrible, _literally_ impossible-to-look-away-from wreck? 

Hell, it's only New York - three degrees of separation and all that – so it's not like it's weird for them to have crossed paths on their run... 

Actually, that part made _more_ sense now that he knows his pizza delivery boy is acquainted not only with his two new agents but with his boss as well. When he'd first caught sight of the muscular blonde with the familiar face leaning casually against a tree in the park a third of the way through their run he'd nearly tripped over his own feet. He'd been staring right back too, challenging, _daring_ Phil to call him out, so he'd done the one thing he hated doing, the one thing that had been trained out of him for years – he ran away. 

He hadn't been sure if the guy was following him, but the way the hair stood up on the back of his neck said that he was. It made him nervous in a way that he usually wasn't, an excited sort of anxiety jumping around in his belly, but then Natasha Romanov had run past him alone and his shoulders had relaxed, his form and his pace relaxing and lengthening out again. 

Then Ronin had gone sweeping past him with a wink and smile and there was a pert, gorgeous ass trotting along in front of him like torture punishment. 

He didn't think it could get any more awkward than that. 

God was he wrong. 

The clouds burst with a clap of thunder so cliched he nearly laughed, and after checking that Stark's arc reactor wasn't going to fry him in the rain he'd picked up his pace, making a break for dryer ground. Didn't really help – he was soaked through by the time he got to the steps of the Tower and so was Clint. 

Hell if that name wasn't sweet on his tongue, a tongue he'd nearly swallowed when he pulled up to the little group waiting for them in front of the doors. The man was wearing a shirt that was shredded to indecency, the sides cut out to show off a thick torso, ribs strapped with muscle, and shoulders and upper arms like carved marble. Phil had been unable to look away from those shifting muscles, that golden skin, round, bulging biceps. The skin that was (technically) covered wasn't any easier to ignore – the grey cotton was practically painted on by that point and left nothing at all to Phil's imagination. The man's muscles were put on beautiful display, abdominals and pectorals clearly defined, his nipples stiff and peaked in the chill rain and Phil had blushed painfully before turning away. 

The urge to touch, to actually get the chance this time to _feel_ , to explore that body was a hot, tingling rush beneath his skin, heavy in the pit of his belly, and he had to summon up the image of his elderly, wrinkled, next door neighbor in her two-piece to get himself back under control. He'd gone back to strict professionalism after that, as best he could when dealing with Stark anyway. Tony apparently knew the man well enough to invite him along to the new training room he'd created, and Phil had bit down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from seconding the invitation. 

He knew the man could move, oh did he know, and he'd said himself that he was flexible. Phil would have loved a more... _thorough_ demonstration. 

Luckily Clint seemed to have more good sense than he did and took off for some range time, something that was just as intriguing for Phil as his... other extracurricular activities. Unfortunately the old adage ' _out of sight, out of mind_ ' didn't quite hold true – he felt hyped up and off balance even after the man left. He did his best to pay attention and provide some constructive direction and critique for Barnes and Romanov, not that they needed much, but the only thing that really helped was running the course himself. 

Running, jumping, climbing, moving like he really was in the middle of a warzone again felt amazing. His heart was pounding in his chest, pulse beating heavy in his wrists and his throat, he was hot with adrenaline and exhaustion by the time he'd blitzed through three different sequences. He loved this, had lived for it for many years, and getting back to it again was something he'd been looking forward to ever since Stark had detailed his plans for the Initiative. 

Pretty obvious that the others weren't expecting him to take such an _active_ role – they were staring at him with a range of shock, disbelief, and impressed acknowledgement. Abruptly self-conscious, Phil scowled and stalked over to the benches along the wall, lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and grab a water bottle. 

Oh this was stupid. 

He doesn't even know the man, likely won't ever see him again in anything more than passing. It's ridiculous to be so distracted; he can't afford to be. 

Fine then. 

Put it away, move on. 

He'd never been one to put personal relationships over work, and if he was to get this pet project of Tony's off the ground, it wasn't the time to start. He needed to focus, to do this one thing, and he knew from experience that when you're responsible for the safety, the lives of others, it's best not to be caught unprepared or unawares. 

So. 

He would focus on work. 

Not on Clint, or the way he made Phil feel. 

Good. 

Decided. 

"Well Stark," he huffs as all three of them make their way over to his side, "Looks like you've actually hit on a good idea this time." 

"Please," Tony scoffed, waving him off. "All my ideas are good ones. Now we just need to convince Barton to come play with us and we'll be gold." 

Futz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm curious, what's you guys' favorite crazy pizza topping? AKA - anything weirder than pepperoni. Me I like bacon, blue cheese, and green onion. YUM 


	9. Awkward...?

He orders another cheese pizza the next Friday. 

And another one the Friday after that. 

It's stupid, he knows it is, especially when the pizzas are delivered by teenagers who wear pepperoni-print t-shirts and sing soliloquies at him with far too much enthusiasm. 

A part of him mumbles petulantly that he knows how to get Ronin back to his apartment, that he could have that lap dance he can't stop thinking about if he'd just pluck up his courage and pick up the damn phone. Another part of him says that it's weird, unforgivably creepy because he knows the man now, kind of. He knows his name, he knows his friends, he... 

He's supposed to be convincing him to come play ball for Stark. 

Although he's still not exactly sure _why..._

He sure as hell isn't going to ask. 

Stark's been a pill for days, more so than usual and that's saying something. He's sullen and irritable, frequently devolving into sulks that not even coffee can bring him out of, and Phil has no idea what's going on. Pepper seems like she might have a clue but is hesitant to get involved, which really should tell Phil everything he needs to know and only serves to make him all the more nervous. 

It's not good, no, not a good situation at all. 

So he pours himself into the Initiative, assessing Barnes and Romanov's abilities, assessing Stark's, developing training programs for each of them that will improve their admittedly small problem areas and putting them through their paces day after day after day. Tony works on his suit, sketches schematics for the next evolution of the thing before he's even fully tested the first one, and really Phil only allows it because it keeps the genius focused and out of his already-thinning hair. It's not good for the man to be down in his labs for so long, to skip meals and go without sleep and stay hunched over his computer boards and his tools for hours at a time, but it's better than the alternative, the odd moping and long faces and distracted nerves. 

Tony Stark in that state is an accident waiting to happen, the kind of accident that results in minor explosions. 

For his part, Phil has plenty of work to occupy him. He does his cover job, starts renovating Stark Security and running through its employees one by one. A few are promoted, a few more kicked to the curb, and he dares to beard the dragon in its den several nights in a row by venturing down into the labs to redirect Stark's work to focus on updating Jarvis and routing him through Phil's personal cell. 

That's not to say that he's neglecting his own training regimen in the meantime. He's actually a tiny bit ashamed to say that he's rewritten that as well. Being surrounded by beautiful, competent people who use their bodies as tools, as weapons, well it takes its toll on an older man. He refuses to admit that it has anything to do with Clint Barton. So what if he goes back to his Army Rangers training, adding an extensive set of calisthenics to his morning routine? So what if he pushes himself to do two extra miles on every run? So if what he starts weight lifting until he starts to see the definition in his abdominals again, the bulk in his shoulders? 

He's not competing, he's just... 

Trying to keep up. 

Definitely not showing off, no. 

Not that. 

Really it's just fair compensation, working off all the extra pizza he's been eating lately. 

Though that's not to say he stops. 

The third week out he gets lucky, or maybe just gets pitied – he isn't sure. He isn't even looking for Ronin anymore, for Clint, and consequently winds up being caught unforgivably off guard when he opens the door. Wallet in hand, he finds Barton standing on the other side, a wicked little smirk on his face and a mischievous glint in his eye as he balances an increasingly familiar pizza box on his fingertips. 

"Plain cheese Coulson? Really?" he asks, slipping past him into the apartment and heading straight for the breakfast nook off the entryway. 

The words are teasing and playful and make Phil's heart thump painfully in his chest, which is silly because he's not flirting, can't be. Doesn't mean Phil doesn't sneak a look at the man's denim-clad ass as he drops the pizza onto the table, just as impressive in what he assumes are civilian clothes as it had been in Ronin's sexy black-and-gold getup. He thinks maybe he gets caught because Barton is grinning at him when he finally brings his gaze back up to a guest-appropriate level, but then he's flopping into a chair and kicking his long legs out in front of him, spreading his thighs wide like a damn challenge, and oh wouldn't Phil like to meet it. 

Hell, if he was sure, if he were absolutely certain he was being cruised... 

But it's been a long time since he flirted with someone, even longer since someone flirted with him. 

"It's good," he defends, moving away from the door to lean against the wall, leading with his hips as he flips open his wallet and peels out a couple of bills. 

Clint chuckles, low and deep and dark, and Phil can feel it tingle in the pit of his belly, can feel the man's eyes drag slowly down the line of his body. 

"And safe." 

Flicking him a glance, Phil finds that he's got a soft sort of smile on his face, amused, maybe a little fond, and it's reassuring enough that yes, ok, he'll risk an attempt. 

"Yes," he agrees, rolling his shoulders to push off the wall and stepping forward, too much the soldier even now to try a sultry saunter. "I like knowing what I'm paying for." 

The light in the man's eyes dies just a little as he leans back, looking up at Phil with a smile that's suddenly a lot more strained at the edges. 

"Right," he chuffs, but it's stiff and stilted. "No strippers for you." 

This time Phil lets himself grin, bright and honest and maybe just a little sharp, a little wolfish. 

"I'm ex-Army," he says proudly. "I've sat for my share of lap dances." 

"Oh. So... is it all guys then, or just me?" 

And well he just sounds so freaking hurt, so vulnerable that Phil's suddenly got the courage to actually make a move. He needs to make one anyway – he's too distracted by this man, really, it's pathetic, it's been _weeks_ – but it's easier this way with Clint looking to be at least a little off his game too. 

"Just you," he replies, stepping in between the man's open knees, leaning in to tuck the folded bills into the breast pocket of the charcoal colored flak jacket he's wearing open over an indecently tight white t-shirt. 

Having been staring sulkily at the wall Clint actually rears back a little from nearness, stares up at him with furrowed brow and bright, wary eyes. 

"I don't like mixing business with pleasure," Phil explains, still close, too close, terrified by his own boldness. "Pretty obvious I haven't stopped thinking about Ronin, but I haven't really stopped thinking about Clint either." 

"You don't even know me," he says wonderously, but he doesn't sound nearly so hurt anymore, doesn't sound angry. 

"I don't," Phil agrees, shaking his head, "But I want to. Didn't seem right to pay for Ronin when I was hoping to maybe share a slice with Clint." 

He stares. So long in fact that Phil starts to panic, thinks that obviously this was a huge mistake and he really misread this situation, and damn it, he's an ex-Ranger, he doesn't squirm. He can handle a rejection, he can take a step back and brush this off, he can... 

"I want to." 

Phil feels himself blink, startle, like he's been zapped by a livewire, and he can't really believe what he's actually heard. 

"Really?" 

Clint chuckles then, cheerful, trickster's grin back in place. 

"False modesty doesn't suit you" he says, "But if you're fishing for compliments I'll bite. No way you don't already know how smokin' hot you are." 

And now it's Phil's turn to stare. 

"Huh," Clint murmurs, his grin curling into something softer. "Maybe not so false then." 

Leaning forward he climbs slowly to his feet, bringing him up with mere inches to spare between his mouth and Phil's and he's still staring, still surprised. Clint's tongue snakes out to wet his lips and Phil wants to kiss him, can't help the physical attraction that's so strong, the strange, warm connection he feels to this man he doesn't really know, but he holds back. 

Too soon, he tells himself, too tenuous, but... 

"I want to," Clint repeats, _insists,_ but there's regret in his voice and god, he's anxious all over again. 

If this is what flirting is like, exhausting and nerve-wracking, then it's no wonder he doesn't do it all that often. 

"I got a shift," Clint mumbles, biting his lower lip, and the way he drops his eyes makes Phil think that he really does regret it. "But um... maybe next time?" 

"Next time," he says dumbly, still captivated by Clint's mouth, his heart thudding against his ribs, and those lips curve into a smile in response. 

"Cool. So I guess um, I'll just watch for your order huh?" 

"Yeah, that... that'd be good." 

"Awesome. So hey, enjoy the pizza yeah?" 

And then he's gone.

**AVAVA**

So...

That was without a doubt the most awkward ten minutes of Clint's life, and he's been walked in on by a bus full of tipsy grandmas wearing nothing but a pink feather boa and a smile before. 

But he also maybe kinda has a date, and he thinks he's never been as happy as he is in this moment. He actually pops a wheelie on the drive back to PizzaGrams, grinning like an idiot behind the visor of his helmet. 

Phillip Coulson, wow. 

He _doesn't_ know him that well yet, but he likes everything he sees. There's the physical attraction, sure, that first hot surge of _want_ that had rushed through the pit of his belly when the man had opened the door for that very first pizza, the Number Five special. He's Clint's type, yeah, hits all his buttons, but it's already more than that. He likes the way the man cares, the way he tries, the way it actually seems to matter to him how he comes across, and damn is he coming across well. 

It has a lot to do with Bucky and Natasha. They talk about Coulson like he's some kind of _professional,_ like he's more than just the security bureaucrat that Stark claims he is. They talk about him like they're... like they're _impressed,_ and damn if that's not a huge turn-on, being able to impress the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier. They'd come back after that run, that day on Stark's obstacle course quiet and contemplative, refusing to speak about the training exercises they'd run, and that silence had spoken volumes. It's to the point where Clint's getting suspicious – not enough that he's willing to take Stark up on his many-times-repeated offer, but enough to make him intensely curious, in both the new job they seem to be working on and the man directing it. 

Nat says he looks incredible in a suit, and Clint believes her. 

Thus far he's only seen the man in workout gear and house clothes, hoodies and sweats and t-shirts, soft cotton and thick-framed glasses. The dichotomy of soft-n-snuggly causal and form-fitting, Army-branded sexy is driving him crazy. Clint can appreciate going commando in one's own home after hours, but answering the door in grey sweats – a man only does that when he's got something to show-off. From the brief glimpses he's gotten, Coulson's definitely got more than enough to do the job. 

But those glasses, and the way he'd just asked Clint out... 

Damn, the man's just... just... _adorkable!_

And Clint thinks he's maybe just a little bit in love. 

So when he gets back to the pizzeria he speaks to Bruce and to Nat, and to Steve who will speak to Fury, and he lets them know that no matter what, the next time an order for a plain cheese comes through on Coulson's account it's to be delivered by absolutely no one else but him, thank you very much. He accepts their good-natured teasing with grace, is surprised when Nat kisses his forehead – as good a blessing as he could hope for. Putting on his Ronin outfit for delivery he imagines what it will be like, imagines hanging out on Coulson's couch sharing a pizza, maybe watching some Dog Cops, really getting to know the man that fascinates him so. 

What surprises him most is that sex never comes into it, that he isn't fixated on making out or dancing or getting his hands on the body he really _does_ want to get his hands on. 

No, instead he imagines laughing, smiling, feeling _good,_ and maybe asking Coulson out on a real date when it's over, where he can really be Clint – no pizza involved. 

He might be in trouble.


	10. Cheese

He orders three more pizzas, one every Friday, but he continues to be disappointed every time he opens the door and finds someone other than Clint standing there, box in hand. He'd be anxious and depressed about it if it weren't for Natasha, who pulls him aside on one of Stark's increasingly elaborate obstacle courses to relay Clint's apologies. She assures him that it's not a brush off – only that Clint's been busy with his other jobs and orders for the Number 5 Special, and she's kind enough to remind him that if he really wanted to see the man he now had a keycode that made such a thing easily achievable. 

Phil had suspected that she was the one to write the code onto the lid of his pizza box but that doesn't soften him to her snark. He sends her and her husband off on a practice mission as punishment – a treasure hunt of sorts that will result in his favorite coffee and tiramisu for dessert if they're successful – and challenges them to avoid getting caught on a single security camera while they're at it. He spends the rest of the day monitoring their progress after convincing Stark to hack into the traffic cam system and decidedly not thinking about Clint – a task made harder by the fact that Tony had decided to stick around, working in the same section of the lab Phil is using and loudly bemoaning the absence of his own favorite stripper. 

This unfortunate habit continues for the next two days, though to be fair the Widow's Bite wristlets he's building for Natasha come along nicely in the meantime. Seems bitching really _does_ improve his productivity, even if it very nearly has Phil tearing what's left of his hair out. Still, by the time he's actually worked out what exactly has the man in such a tizzy – something even the _genius_ apparently hasn't figured out yet – he's ready to duct tape him to the ceiling of his lab and leave him there. 

No surprise that he smells a trap when Stark invites him out to lunch. 

"Oh god," he mutters as Happy pulls them up outside of a quaint little pizza parlor, the name wisely kept off the front of the building. "Stark..." 

"What?" he asks innocently, hopping out of the car and shooting the cuffs of his suit, one of his finer silver numbers that Phil knows he wears for luck to certain meetings. "I'm hungry. I want pizza, this place serves pizza. Ergo..." 

"Yes, I'm sure that's why we're here," Phil huffs, climbing out after him and slipping his aviators over his eyes. 

"Oh hush you," he mumbles, still fiddling with his sleeves, and behind his sunglasses Phil blinks. 

He rarely sees Stark uncertain, rarely sees the slip of that confidant playboy mask he wears. Oh, he knows it's a ruse, a front, of course, but he also knows how much it costs Tony to let it drop. 

Stepping up beside him he squeezes the man's shoulder, then leads the way inside. 

For all its childish gimmick, the interior of the parlor is neat, clean, and well decorated, if a bit small. It's obviously a take-out kind of place, with only five small tables arranged along the front wall, the rest of the small space taken up by a long, narrow counter. There are no cartoon pizza slices hanging from the ceiling, no cheap red, white, and green Italian flags hanging from the walls, and though a bit crowded with a dozen or so college students lined up in wait, it's well organized and moving quickly. 

Phil gets them both in line and is pleased that everything _does_ move along smoothly, the music being piped from overhead neither loud nor obnoxious. Stark is being oddly quiet himself, fidgeting with his phone and ignoring the handful of looks he garners, and Phil stands with his arms crossed and his sunglasses still on, the stereotypical image of a bodyguard to make sure he's given his space. No telling where this strange mood will take him, and he'd really rather avoid any kind of paparazzi incident thank you very much.

Happily no one has come in behind them, so when he and Tony reach the counter they're quite alone in the shop. He hardly gets the chance to contemplate what he's going to order – he's starting to think he's had more than enough pizza for a while even if the pies lined up along the counter do look incredible – when the man shoves ahead of him and turns his most charming smile on the young college girl behind the register. 

"Hi there sweetheart," he grins, giving her a wink when she smiles. "Would you mind calling Cap for me?" 

The girl's blush clings to her cheeks and she bats her eyelashes. 

"You're Tony Stark right? Oh my gosh wow! You're like, _amazing,_ but um, I'm not sure..." 

Phil's eyes narrow – that's genuine confusion not just the normal, star-struck brain bleep Stark usually engenders. Flicking a glance over the menu board above their heads he notes a distinct lack of listed specials, only the day's by-the-slice options and the wider selection of full pies for pick-up. Stark is attempting to repeat himself but the girl just looks increasingly confused, and Phil's heart thumps as realization creeps over him. 

"Stark," he growls, grabbing on to Tony's arm and pulling him a step to the side. "Have you ever actually come _in here_ before?" 

"What? No," Tony frowns. "I always order up to the Tower. Why?" 

"Because," he points out flatly as he glances over Tony's shoulder, watching Natasha slip into place behind the register and shoo the younger woman away. "I don't think all the employees are in on the joke." 

"They're not," Natasha confirms, causing Stark to yelp and jerk in Phil's grip. "Try not to spill the beans, eh Stark?" 

"Natalie," he sniffs, straightening his lapels. It's a nickname he frequently uses on the redhead, though not one Phil has quite figured out yet. 

"What can I get you?" she asks flatly, entirely unimpressed. 

"We're here to see Cap," he huffs, and Natasha frowns. 

"He's not here," she says at last, but she's holding something back, Phil can see it. 

He quirks an eyebrow and makes a minute nod in Tony's direction, whose shoulders have slumped and whose face has fallen. Natasha sighs though her nose, mouth still twisted in a harsh expression before she nods back. 

"Have a seat outside," she says, tapping the screen of her computer. "I'll see if I can find him." 

"Thank you Natasha," Phil replies, grabbing Tony by the shoulder and steering him toward the exit before the man can jump the counter. 

He looks like he's about to. 

"Sit down," he commands as they step outside onto the sidewalk, another row of small, metal tables set up beneath colorful umbrellas along the curb. 

Tony scowls at him but does as he'd told, choosing the table spray-painted a bright, deep blue. Phil sits down across from him and leans back, crossing an ankle over his knee and opening one of the laminated menus over his lap. 

"You want to tell me the real reason we're here?" he asks flatly, making sure that he doesn't raise his eyes, keeps his focus supposedly on anything other than Tony Stark. 

The man himself is frowning, muttering to himself, fidgeting with his suit like he only does when he's entirely distracted, and a distracted Tony Stark is never a good thing. 

"Because I don't know what else to do," he grumbles, all prickly irritation over real anxiety. "I tried everything else." 

"You could try pulling your head out of your ass," Phil mutters, still perusing the menu. 

Behind him someone barks a laugh and Phil quickly turns in his chair, only to find Clint coming up behind him with two long platters in his hands, a bright, happy grin on his face. 

"Sorry Stark," he smirks as he sets the trays down on the table; one of fresh bruschetta and another of what appears to be an arugula salad with pear, walnuts, and blue cheese. "But the man does have a point." 

Brushing his hands on his pants, Clint hops up onto the planter at the edge of the curb that separates the seating area from the street and settles down, like maybe he plans to stay. Phil smiles a little, a bit shy with Stark sitting across from them, but Clint smiles right back and the crests of his cheek are pink beneath the edges of his purple-tinted shades. 

"Hey," he says dumbly, and Clint's grin widens. 

"Hey." 

"We uh, we didn't order..." 

Phil almost facepalms, horrified at his own attempt at small talk, but Clint just shrugs and reaches out to steal a piece of the bruschetta; tomato, basil, tiny bits of mozzarella and a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. 

"You want to order you do it inside. You sit out here you pretty much get what Bruce thinks you should get, whether you ordered or not," he explains, stuffing his stolen bite into his mouth. "Besides, I thought you might be getting sick of pizza." 

"Maybe a little," Phil admits, but Clint's grinning and swinging his feet like he doesn't have a care in the world, so it seems ok. "When you get a night off, maybe we could..." 

"Yes, absolutely!" he agrees heatedly, staring at Phil with an intensity that's a little shocking. "I'm sorry I haven't been... more available." 

"We all work," Phil says, and he's surprised by how much that makes Clint relax, how relieved he looks. "But maybe I could get your number..." 

"Hell yeah!" 

And well, that's pretty enthusiastic, so Phil hands over his cell phone and Clint taps away at the screen before handing it back with a little spin that has Phil staring at his fingers and feeling very glad that the menu is still spread over his lap. 

"Listen I can't hang," he says, hopping down and bouncing on the balls of his feet, "But um, I'll text you ok?" 

"Please do," Phil smiles, and Clint pinks up again before nodding to Stark, who waves him off airily, and heading back inside. 

"Not fair." 

Pinching the bridge, of his nose, Phil sighs and ignore the comment, instead taking a spare plate from the stack Clint had brought and serving himself, appetite refreshed now that there's something in front of him that's not just cheese covered carbs. 

"What's wrong with me?" he continues to whine, and Phil barely gets his mouth open before Stark shakes his head, makes a slashing flick with his fingers. "No, don't. Don't answer that, it was rhetorical. I know perfectly well that I am, in fact, an incredible catch. So. What?" 

"Maybe it isn't about you," he points out, though that seems like fighting a losing battle. 

"What, you think it's Cap?" Tony asks sharply, and Phil looks up, surprised, because that sounds incredibly defensive of the other man. "You don't even know him. He's..." 

"You hurt his feelings Tony," Phil says. 

That shuts him up pretty quick. 

He stares at Phil with huge, young, wounded eyes, and he's reminded not for the first time how naive Tony can be, how little experience he _does have_ with your average, everyday world. Sighing, he puts down his fork and scrubs his hand over his face, leans forward with his elbows on the table. 

"Listen to me," he says sharply, in the same commanding tone he'd use when hauling the other man out of the desert. "Everything you've told me about this guy? That's you having a friend. That's you wanting to have something _more_ than a friend. And I'll bet you anything he's picked up on that." 

Tony stares at him, silent, with utter disbelief. 

"You're not subtle Stark," Phil huffs, sitting back again. "You _like_ him." 

"Wh... what? No! I mean, _yeah,_ but I..." 

"You like him," he says again, to really drive that fact home. "As more than your delivery boy. I'm sure he's seen that, as sure as I am that you've never _told_ him, which means you're still treating him as your personal, on-call stripper..." 

"I didn't lead him on," Stark snaps, and Phil rolls his eyes. 

"No, you led yourself on," he scolds. "You know, for a genius you're kind of an idiot." 

"So you've said," Stark says flatly. "Emphatically. Many times. So what do I do now?" 

"Decide what you want," Phil says sternly, reminded of the last time he'd had to give his single sister's teenage son a strict talking-to. _"Before_ you talk to him. And then be honest and make sure he knows where you _both_ stand." 

"That easy?" he scoffs, sitting back in his chair and straightening his tie like he's in a board meeting, another defensive tactic. "I _know_ what I want, I want to _date_ him. But Cap's not like Barton, he won't just climb into my lap like a..." 

"Watch it Stark," Phil snarls, eyes flashing. "Jesus, he's _your_ friend too." 

"Exactly," Tony snips. "Which means I know that you two are disgustingly perfect for each other. I say again, not..." 

He snaps his mouth shut so fast Phil is actually startled, and once again has to swivel around in his chair to look over his shoulder. There's a tall, broad chested blonde walking toward them, his hands in his pockets as he kicks the sidewalk beneath his shoes, head hung. Tony's up and out of his chair before Phil realizes that this must be the guy, the much-lauded Cap, striding toward him with one hand out. 

"Cap!" 

The man startles, stares at Tony like he's the last person he expected to see here, which, to be fair, he probably is, then turns on his heel and heads inside. 

Stark is running off after him before Phil can even shout a word of warning. 

"Damn it Stark," Phil curses, wiping his hands on a napkin tossing it down on the table. 

He's about to push up out of his chair when their third visitor – and quite possibly the most uninvited – sits down across from him, folds his arms over his chest, and glowers. 

The force of that glare is impressive given the man only has one eye, but it matches the rest of him well; large, imposing, dressed in black leather from head to toe. 

"So," he rumbles, looking Phil over but good. "You must be Cheese." 

Phil blinks, stares, horrified. 

"Excuse me?" 

"What exactly are your intentions toward Clint Barton?" he demands, and something in his face hardens that warns Phil he'd better have the right answer. 

"Clint," he says flatly, just to buy himself a second's time, but that apparently isn't the right answer. 

"Yes, _Barton,_ the blonde with the shoulders, smart-mouthed motherfucker!" 

"I'm not sure it's any of your business what my intentions are," he replies coolly, sitting back and straightening his tie, because two can play the ice-cold badass game. "You're Clint's... what? Fairy godfather?" 

The man stares for a moment, then barks an unexpected laugh that softens his entire person, relaxes the tension between them. 

"You've got a pair of brass ones, I'll give you that Cheese," he chuckles, sitting back and snagging a piece of the remaining bruschetta. "You might be good for him at that." 

"Out of curiosity," Phil says, picking his fork back up and digging into his salad, because he's just about done with random people telling him how he'll do with (or for) Clint, "Who exactly are you?" 

"Nick Fury, I started the joint," he shrugs, jerking his chin toward the little pizza place. 

Now it's Phil's turn to look _him_ up and down. 

"You didn't dance did you?" 

"Smart ass," Fury growls, skewering him with a look. "I'm his boss. One of them, anyway." 

"You doing this with Stark then?" Phil asks. "He's after your boy Cap." 

"I ain't worried about Cap," he huffs. "Ain't worried about the rest of them either. All of them, every one's got something other than this. Rogers, he's got his art and his school, Romanov and Barnes got Stark Security... Barton, he's got nothin.' For whatever damn reason he doesn't think he's good enough for more. So I ask again, what are your intentions, Army Ranger Phil Coulson?" 

Phil just looks back at him, calm, steady, even though his heart is pounding. 

He isn't sure that this time the question requires an answer. 

"Anyway," the man says with a magnanimous shrug, picking up a fork and digging into what's left of the salad greens, "Be glad it's me giving you the shovel talk and not Romanov." 

"I think she already beat you to it."


End file.
